The Book of Secrets
by Are Are
Summary: With a war of words and wills, Jimmy Kent and Thomas Barrow embark on a strange romance. Set Post Christmas Special. ((Oh, and credit to Catthetamedshrew on tumblr for the awesome cover image!)
1. Chapter 1

Jimmy felt, sometimes, that he existed- as a _being_- in square opposition to society. The funny thing about this opposition was that _society _had no idea- and Jimmy got along very well, being funny, or charming, or good-looking- or any of the tripe that it seemed that other people valued.

Jimmy himself did not value any of those things. He felt less than nothing about most people- they were good for a laugh, but he preferred to be on his own. Stupid people were _stupid_, and easily malleable- and people whose intellects equaled or eclipsed Jimmy's own could still be drawn in by good looks and charm. Those two things in combination could render a genius into a soft and obvious fool for periods of time.

Jimmy made snap judgements about everyone- and he was usually right- a rube was a a rube, and a sucker was a sucker- and there would always be a few of them around. Sometimes, however, his abrupt character evaluations were wrong. He had been incorrect, on a couple of points, when he had first arrived at Downton. He had been _right _about a few things, too: Mr. Carson disliked him, Alfred was easy to manipulate- but he had been wrong on the _finer_ points. He had thought Miss O'Brien a rigid old sort, with a stern way about her- but ultimately _kind_- and he had been painfully wrong. And he had, of course, been wrong about Mr. Barrow.

Oh, Jimmy had liked Mr. Barrow a bit- but he had _loathed_ him too, thinking for a while that Mr Barrow- _Thomas-_ was one of those soppy, lecherous types. And lecherous about _him._ Lavender. Deviant. _Smart_, perhaps- but rendered stupid by his obvious infatuation. And far too forward. But eventually Jimmy realized it might not've been entirely Thomas's fault, after all.

And _then_ there had been the whole debacle with Thomas appearing, as if by magic, in his bed- and after that they'd barely spoken for a year. But in that year Jimmy had gleaned a bit of information about Thomas, and discovered that perhaps the other man wasn't as soppy as he had originally thought. In fact he was supposed to have once been something of a _villain_, if the secondhand stories Alfred repeated to him- told by his evil aunt- were to be believed. Jimmy knew now that O'Brien was a liar, and yet some of the tales she told- Thomas dabbling in the black market, Thomas trying to seduce the visiting dignitaries- Thomas doing a poor frame-up of Mr. Bates- had a quality of truth to them.

It took Jimmy _months_ to put together the reasons why his idea of Thomas Barrow was so remarkably out-of-step with everyone else's. But then- after Thomas had saved him from an ugly beating at the fair in Thirsk- the hard truth had shattered over Jimmy's head like a china plate. Or like a fist.

The really _interesting_ thing- the thing that gave Jimmy pause- was that perhaps _both_ sides of Thomas could be true. This idea occurred to him suddenly as he'd stared at Thomas's battered, bloodied face- and then Thomas had been lifted up and helped to limp away by many people- and Jimmy had stayed on for a moment, staring at the stone wall that Thomas had been slumped against as if it might divulge to him bewildering secrets. _He _is_ a villain,_ Jimmy thought. _But he's a hero for me. How strange. I wonder why-_

Jimmy had pondered it for a year, and he could've pondered it for a year more- if he hadn't caught sight of the pretty young couple embracing chastely by the carousel as he left the fair. The young man gazed into the girl's eyes, and- without taking his eyes away from her face- readjusted her gauzy scarf around her neck, a smile touching the corners of his mouth.

Watching them together, Jimmy had a sudden and profound idea: _Maybe he _loves_ me. Doesn't just _desire_ me, but actually loves me. _

It would explain a lot- Thomas's refusal to hear anybody slander Jimmy's name, and Thomas's behavior towards Jimmy- noble, heroic behavior that seemed in direct dissent with what Jimmy had learned about Thomas's basic character. _So he's Lancelot for me and Mordred to everybody else,_ Jimmy thought. _Strange. But they say all love is exception-making._

They _said_ that, but Jimmy didn't know for sure if it was true. He had never been in love.

Oh, so many girls had professed to be devoted to him that Jimmy had lost count- but those were all flirtations that vanished with the changing of the seasons- and Thomas Barrow was a grown man- not a silly young girl, but a grown _man-_ who seemed to have become hopelessly attached to him.

Jimmy had gone to visit Thomas as he lay in bed, recovering from his injuries. He hoped that the visit would relieve the pressing sense of guilt- the heavy-handed feeling of _obligation _that the sight of Thomas's beaten face had stirred up in him. It had been a success, after a fashion. Jimmy had gotten Thomas to admit to his to romantic sentiments in a minute and a half, without any cajoling at all, and so the mystery had been solved.

But the _answer_ to the mystery- that is to say, the idea of _love_ and the odd things it could provoke people to do- stayed with Jimmy, pushing itself in amidst his other concerns and making it hard to sleep.

It was uncomfortable, to have someone pining away for him- _uncomfortable_- but Jimmy knew with total certainty that if Thomas did, in the course of their newborn friendship, ever _really_ get to know him, _love _would no longer be an issue.

Jimmy had never really articulated that thought to himself- the thought that he lacked some thread of decency that everyone else possessed- but still the idea sat there in his head, dictating his worldview as surely as if it were etched in stone. He existed in opposition to society- or perhaps in defiance of it- and that was Jimmy's grave, dark secret- so much worse than fancying blokes, or being a bad lot sometimes. Someone could love you after you'd been cruel to them, maybe- cruelty, Jimmy had ascertained from literature, being an indivisible part of love. However Jimmy wasn't exactly _cruel_, he didn't think- he was _careless_- and by that he meant he didn't _care_, not about anything or anyone in the whole world.

When he was a child Jimmy had liked to overturn rubbish bins just to see the ugly mess of them spilling out over cobblestones. Just for that- the pleasure of it- and the brief upheaval of the laws of society- and perhaps, in some spiteful little way, the knowledge that someone else would have to clean up the mess later. _Let someone know that about me,_ Jimmy thought, _ and still profess to love me. I defy anyone to know me and _still_ love me._

To hedge his bets, to take things that did not belong to him- to stack the deck of life in his own favor- these were things that Jimmy did- and if they were ugly things to do, well, it was an ugly world. Jimmy just wanted to make sure he got in a few good blows before life knocked him flat on his back. As it did to everyone, in the end.

* * *

"It's terrible, isn't it?" Alfred asked Jimmy in the hallway, the day after Matthew Crawley's funeral- and Jimmy thought he meant the great sadness that hovered over Downton, unbroken and ominous as the thunderclouds that obscured the sky above.

Jimmy shrugged, falling into step with him as they walked down to the servant's hall for a hurried breakfast. "I can't think of many instances where somebody dying is wonderful, can you?"

Absently Jimmy thought that he would read the paper to Thomas when he had a spare stretch of time. He was making it a point to visit Thomas every day. Thomas had struggled out of bed for long enough to stand, grey-faced, at Mr. Crawley's interment- but then he had limped back to his rooms and remained there. Jimmy had gone to visit Thomas, and give him the news of the world, much later- but he had been scarcely halfway through the articles on the front page when he had glanced up- only to realize that Thomas had fallen asleep.

For a moment Jimmy had sat, watching Thomas's battered face, unguarded in dreams. Then he rose, and left the room, turning out the lights as he went.

The memory swept back over him as he walked with Alfred into the hall, where everyone was assembled for breakfast in varying degrees of wakefulness. Carson was gruffer than usual, and had a list of additional tasks a mile long for everybody.

Of course Thomas was not at breakfast- but Jimmy would take a tray up for him directly after- a thing which he was also making a habit of. It wasn't out of some sense of obligation- well, maybe it _was_, a little- but it wasn't as _much_ out of a sense of obligation as it was genuine.

"This weather seems so appropriate," Anna said, from Jimmy's left- but she wasn't speaking to him, and he didn't glance over. It was raining, but then, it _rained_ sometimes, didn't it?

"Lady Grantham would like us to see that all the funeral wreaths are removed from the house before luncheon," Carson said, and Jimmy realized that he was being addressed. Across the table Alfred also gave Carson his full attention.

"You may begin after breakfast," Carson said, and together they nodded an affirmative. "Yes, sir," Jimmy said, keeping his feelings at being given additional work from showing on his face.

"I'll have the flowers taken to the church," Carson said, as if he were checking it off on a mental list. Jimmy had the urge to play with his cards- but he felt that any kind of frivolity, no matter how standard, would result in remonstration at such a delicate time.

"I'll need a little extra time for-" O'Brien was making some demand of Mrs. Hughes, but she fell silent, cut off by the appearance of Lady Mary in the doorway.

Jimmy clambered to his feet, along with everybody else, by reflexive habit- and so it was not until he was fully standing that he realized something was very _off_.

Lady Mary was not _decent_. In fact Jimmy could not recall a time when he had ever seen a woman so undressed- save for a few of the bawdier bars he'd been to on leave during the war. But those had been places to carouse with your comrades, drunk on liquor and the glorious feeling of still, somehow, being _alive_- and this was a world away from that.

The Widow Crawley stood in the doorframe, dressed in only her white shift, as though she had sleepwalked all the way downstairs. Jimmy could see her breasts through her nightgown, and was alarmed by the unselfconsciouness Lady Mary displayed. As if she had no idea what was going on. Around him, his colleagues stood frozen, unsure of what to do- and Jimmy saw that Anna was about to step forward, perhaps to lead her away- but then Lady Mary spoke.

"I can't sleep," she said, in a taut, worn-sounding voice- "Carson, I can't _sleep_- it keeps crying. The baby. George, I mean." She spoke _only _to Carson, as if she were unaware that other people in the hall. Jimmy looked more closely at her pallid, sharp face- and realized that she was _weeping-_ although she gave little indication of it, save for the tears that coursed silently down her cheeks. _There's something very _wrong_ with her,_ Jimmy thought, the realization giving him a chill. He did not enjoy seeing people in the extremities of grief- it was too personal, and he came away from it feeling as though both the grieving party and he himself had been violated in some fashion.

For some reason Carson alone seemed utterly composed. With dignity he stripped off his own jacket- another first, Jimmy had never seen _Carson_ so undressed, either- and wrapped it around Lady Mary's rigid shoulders, so that she was less exposed. Carson, too, disregarded all of the shocked witnesses in the immediately vicinity, and- without regard to rules- put a comforting hand on her arm. "I'm very sorry to hear it, Mi'lady," Carson said, in the gentlest tone Jimmy had ever heard from him- and Carson bent kindly over Lady Mary, who nodded mutely, as if he had answered for her some unspoken question.

"I really _can't_," Lady Mary said quietly, her voice breaking on the last word. "Why don't we go upstairs and discuss it?" Carson asked, pressing one hand to her back, and guiding her out of the hall.

"No- not upstairs- I don't want to _be_ up there for another minute-" Jimmy heard her say, from the hall.

"That's perfectly all right, Mi'lady. We can take tea in my office, if you like-" then there was the click of Carson's office door, and Jimmy could make out no more of their conversation.

Everyone stood awkwardly around for another moment. Alfred caught Jimmy's eye, his face a mask of curiosity and concern.

"Well," Mrs. Hughes said, clearing her throat. "It's time we'd best be getting on with it." And she clapped her hands together, sending them all away to work- but still Jimmy did not miss the worried look on her face as he walked past her.

* * *

"What's going on?" Ivy demanded, the instant Jimmy made it back to the kitchen. Daisy and Ivy both stared at him. Across the room Mrs. Patmore stringently ignored them, but Jimmy could tell that she was listening, too.

"How've you even had time to hear _any_ gossip yet?" Jimmy replied, under their scrutiny.

"O'Brien said-" Ivy began, and Jimmy scoffed. "Well don't listen to _her_," he answered, raising an eyebrow.

"Is Lady Mary going mad?" Daisy asked- at least she had the grace to ask in a whisper- looking decidedly worried. Mrs. Patmore had crossed the room to join them, and she snorted derisively. "Of course she isn't. Grief makes people do funny things, that's all."

"It wasn't funny," Jimmy said, darkly. He did not feel particularly like discussing Lady Mary's impending- or _current_- nervous collapse. "Is Mr. Barrow's tray ready?'

"Mm- almost-" Ivy said, and turned away from him for a moment, before placing the tray neatly in his hands.

_Thomas_ was the only person Jimmy wanted to talk about the odd scene in the servant's hall with. He had worked here a decade or more, and he _knew_ the family- so perhaps he could confirm for Jimmy that the whole episode had been as outrageously out of character for Lady Mary as Jimmy thought it was. She seemed a rather composed sort, usually. Jimmy didn't like her much- but there was something about her coldness he found admirable. She was certainly not a _typical_ woman, if you believed in such things as a _typical_ style of being.

Jimmy went upstairs, and knocked briskly on Thomas's door, before pushing it open. "Breakfast," Jimmy said. "Mrs. Patmore always give you the _best_ food- I swear I think you're having the same meal as the family-" but he paused when he entered the room and Thomas did not stir.

_Still asleep,_ Jimmy thought, looking at Thomas's face. His appearance and posture were so unchanged from when Jimmy had left him the night before that he had to pause for a moment and study Thomas, to make sure he was breathing. _Don't you die, too_, Jimmy thought, grimly. Thomas _did_, with his injuries and the hollows under his closed eyes, look as if he could have been a martyr from an old painting.

Jimmy debated waking him, but decided it was cruel- and he didn't have the right, anyways, seeing as how Thomas was lying there injured because of _him_. Finally he set the tray down on the desk chair, so that Thomas could have his food within reaching distance when he woke- and he made sure the covers were still firmly on the plates, so the food wouldn't be cold- and he cast one last glance up at Thomas, waiting until he drew another long, even breath- and then he turned to go.

And then he saw the book, peeking out from under the edge of the cot- a very handsome book, bound in blue, with no lettering on its cover. _I wonder what _that_ is,_ Jimmy thought, and paused, on his way out.

Not many of us ever get the chance to decide our fate- well, we _decide_ it, of course, in a million little ways- but not in one great moment- not with one action- not in a way that we can look back on and understand. But later, when Jimmy looked back on his life- he _saw_ that one moment, forever preserved, when he took a step backwards, away from the door- and turned- and walked over to the bed, to bend down and lift up the brightly-colored tome. _That-_ that, had been, as they say, the moment of truth, when the circumstances of his fate had turned in his own hands like a coin.

With one eye on Thomas to make sure that he was not about to suddenly awaken, Jimmy opened the book, and flipped through it. It was not a _book_ at all- it was a journal- Jimmy could see that the pages had been handwritten. _ A journal. __If it's his_, Jimmy thought, _there's bound to be something in here about me._

It was shallow but it was true- now that Jimmy knew Thomas _loved_ him, he wanted to know _how_ and why. _Why? _Jimmy could not pretend to understand the other man's motivations for such a depth of feeling. _Even if there's nothing about me in here, I bet there's plenty about him,_ Jimmy thought- and for some reason that made up his mind, and he tucked the book up under his arm. _He's going to know you took it,_ a warning voice said, in Jimmy's brain- but he discounted the warning. _If he says _anything_, I'll tell him I didn't bring up his tray and I don't know who did. But he won't say anything._

So thinking, Jimmy slipped from Thomas's room into his own- and hid the little blue journal under his mattress carefully, feeling a strange thrill as he did it. And then Jimmy had work, and for a few hours he was occupied with other things- but internally he kept returning to the book- again, and again- wondering what revelations could possibly be hidden within it.


	2. Chapter 2

Jimmy found that he had already begun to regret his thievery by the time he sat down to dinner. The mood was still subdued- Jimmy wondered, idly, how many weeks or months the mood would remain subdued _for._ Carson did not come in, and finally Mrs. Hughes told them to go ahead and eat without him.

Jimmy picked at his food as the conversation ebbed and flowed around him like ceaseless rain.

"I don't feel right, leaving now, but it can't be helped, and her Ladyship understands," O'Brien was saying. Mostly she was speaking to Alfred. O'Brien had given her notice- she was going to India with some relatives of the family- a Marquess named Stumpy, or something- Jimmy couldn't recall, exactly. All he knew was that she was _leaving_, and it seemed such a relief. Jimmy didn't like having someone around who'd played him for a fool. And there was more to it than that- there was something awfully _wrong_ with O'Brien- more wrong than whatever was wrong with _him_, even. Jimmy didn't _care_ about other people- but O'Brien seemed to _hate _them. All of them.

_I'm glad you're going, you old wretch_, Jimmy thought, letting his eyes wander over her and away, around to the other occupants of the hall. On his other side Anna sat with Mr. Bates, looking blankly into space, and not participating much in any of the conversation. She had barely touched her meal- and, glancing over at her, Jimmy saw that Mr. Bates held her free hand with his own under the table. The sight of it gave Jimmy a sudden memory- Thomas, apparently distraught over the death of Lady Sybil, clutching his hand at breakfast, quite against his will. At the time Jimmy had only been affronted- by Thomas's forwardness, by his dangerous _obviousness_- and by the fact that Jimmy himself could've been wrongfully implicated by the other man's actions. But now it occurred to Jimmy that the act of clasping his hand had probably been motivated by Thomas's inexplicable _love_ for him. As if he were reaching out to _Jimmy _for comfort. It was a strange thought, that somebody should want to be comforted by him.

_I wonder what's in the book,_ Jimmy thought, and felt uncomfortable. _It was a bad idea to take it,_ Jimmy thought. _You'll be caught out._

After dinner he folded the newspaper under one arm and went to the kitchen. "D'ya have Mr. Barrow's tray?" Jimmy asked, but Daisy shook her head _no_. "Mr. Carson brought it up for him," Daisy said, and Jimmy gave her a significant look over how bizarre _that_ was- but Daisy was not the type who caught significant looks. _It's better this way, anyhow,_ Jimmy thought. _All manner of people come to bring your food, Thomas, not just me. It could've been anyone who lifted your journal._

Jimmy paused outside of Thomas's door, steeling himself in the way that one does when they know they are going to have to tell a lie convincingly- and then he knocked, and heard Thomas's voice say "Come in," distractedly.

Jimmy pushed open the door- and balked at the sight before him. The bedroom was in _chaos_. Packets of letters and clothing and toiletries abounded, spilling off of furniture and onto the floor. The closet door hung open. The desk drawer had been pulled out entirely, and left on top of the desk itself. The bedclothes were turned haphazardly.

Thomas, who sat on the floor in front of the open drawers of his bureau, turned to look at him- his face softening, for a moment, as it always did when he looked at Jimmy. "Evening, Jimmy," Thomas said, and shoved one of the drawers shut with the flat of his hand.

"A bit of redecorating?" Jimmy asked, giving him an incredulous look. Thomas began to rise to his feet with an ill-concealed expression of pain- Jimmy watched him struggle for a moment- and then he extended his hand, to help Thomas up.

"Thank you," Thomas said, releasing Jimmy's hand immediately when he was on his own two feet.

"What's all this?" Jimmy asked, knowing full well that an innocent party would pursue the subject, when all he wanted to do was drop it.

"I- ah- I lost something," Thomas said, and Jimmy nodded, prompting him to continue.

"It belonged to a friend," Thomas elaborated, and Jimmy felt a touch of triumph at the look on Thomas's face. _My god, it's really important to him,_ Jimmy thought, and wondered at what dark secrets the book could possibly contain.

"What sort of _thing_ did you lose?" Jimmy asked, and Thomas's eyes slid away from him, but he answered the question. "A book," Thomas said, and raked a hand through his hair, betraying his anxiety at the loss.

"You lost a friend's book- you didn't misplace my copy of _The Mark of Zorro_, did you?" Jimmy asked, his tone light. "Because if you did-"

"No-" Thomas said. "It's a just a little blue book. But I'd appreciate it if- if you _see_ anybody with a book like that-"

Thomas said _anybody_, but Jimmy could tell that what he meant was _O'Brien._ "Shall I help you look, then?" Jimmy asked, pleased that he had avoided falling under any suspicion.

"No," Thomas said, his shoulder sagging. "It isn't here." With a sigh- of pain or frustration, Jimmy could not be sure- Thomas sat down on the edge of the cot.

"I could help you-" Jimmy said, thinking that his insistence was the crowning touch on the perfection of his lie. No thief could have ever been so very genuine. "No," Thomas said. "Just read me the paper."

"No," Jimmy said, echoing him. "I have to tell you about breakfast-" but Thomas was shaking his head. "Mr. Carson's told me about it already," Thomas said.

"Is that why he came to your room, then?" Jimmy asked, and Thomas smiled at him for a second- but then he looked away.

"Mm," Thomas said, and found a cigarette. "Yes, after a fashion."

Jimmy watched as Thomas produced the silver lighter that was always about him, and coaxed from it a flame. "Well?" Jimmy prompted, and Thomas exhaled. "He's thinking of going away for a few months."

"What?" Jimmy asked, surprised. "And leave you in charge?"

Thomas nodded. "He wasn't very forthcoming, but- I gather Lady Mary's in a poor state. She wants to get away- with the baby- to America, or France, or something- and Carson is prepared to accompany her. I don't know if Anna will go. Perhaps if Mr. Bates does."

It was the strangest thing Jimmy had heard all day. "Why would Lady Mary need a _butler_ to go with her?" he asked, incredulously.

"I don't think it's a butler she needs," Thomas said, looking consideringly at the chain of smoke that issued from the end of his cigarette.

"I can't say I understand it," Jimmy said. "What would the family say about losing _Carson _so that he can go gallivanting off on vacation?"

"They've already said yes," Thomas said. "You don't know," Thomas elaborated, at Jimmy's disbelieving stare. "He's known her for her whole life. I think sometimes that Carson is Lady Mary's real father. Certainly he acts like it."

"The butler's bastard," Jimmy said, provoking a laugh from Thomas. "So he's to keep the suicide watch, hmm?"

"More or less." Thomas surveyed the room behind Jimmy- looking at the disarray, probably- and Jimmy remembered the book under his mattress, and felt a sense of sudden, delirious anticipation.

"And you'll be in charge," Jimmy pressed, intrigued by the prospect of Thomas filling in for Carson.

"Yes," Thomas said- and smiled suddenly, showing a flash of teeth. "I can't say I hate the idea."

"Me either," Jimmy agreed. "You won't give us as much extra work then, will you?"

"Who knows," Thomas said. "I could give you more."

Jimmy laughed. "Give _Alfred _more, and let me take the afternoons off," Jimmy said- he didn't mean anything by it, particularly- but he balked at the odd expression that crossed Thomas's battered face. "Sorry," Jimmy said.

"It's fine," Thomas said, and looked down at his left hand- the gloved hand- a terse expression on his face. After a moment it cracked into a smile of sublime self-deprecation. "I probably would, at that," Thomas said, to his hand.

"I wouldn't take advantage," Jimmy replied, quickly. The moment had turned suddenly awkward, and Jimmy cleared his throat, and opened the paper. "On this day in the wide world," Jimmy said, in exaggerated tones, hoping to lighten the mood. "Some things happened. Hmm. Tannu Tuva, apparently, is a _republic _now. They've the Bolsheviks to thank-" Jimmy skimmed down the page. "God, this is dull. Shall I tell you whom they've elected to be the, ah, 'Chairman of the Constituent Khural'?"

"Please don't," Thomas said, dryly, stubbing out his cigarette.

"Could I have one?" Jimmy asked, and Thomas looked at him for an instant, confusion evident on him- and then he seemed to realize what Jimmy meant, and nodded. "Mmm, how about the arts?" Jimmy asked, flipping through the paper. Thomas produced a cigarette and handed it off, along with his silver lighter.

Jimmy felt the weight of the lighter in his hand- and he lifted the little arm of it, and watched it produce a flame. "I like this lighter," he said, and coughed on his first drag.

"Y'alright?" Thomas asked, and Jimmy nodded, still coughing, and handed the lighter back to him. "Fine," Jimmy said. "Just out of practice." He thrust the paper at Thomas, who took it. "You read for a while." Thomas had never read aloud to him before, and Jimmy wondered how he would sound.

"Alright," Thomas answered, though an odd look had come for a moment to his face- but he discarded it, and began to read an article about the charming habits of Marion Davies.

Jimmy watched Thomas as he spoke- he was better at reading aloud than Jimmy was, scanning far enough ahead to add appropriate changes of tone. Thomas read everything in a slightly mocking tone, and Jimmy smirked at the sound of it, toying with his cigarette. While Thomas was engrossed in the paper Jimmy studied him, thinking of the myriad physical ways that Thomas betrayed being in love with him.

There was the _smiling_, for one- though Thomas hadn't done it for a good long time- but it had begun, again, on the day that Jimmy had given him his promise of friendship. Thomas didn't smile at _anybody_- or at least it was rare- but he smiled at _Jimmy_, as if by reflex, or default- and always then tried to cover it up, looking like a guilty child in the process. The _touching _was all from _before_- and now it was the studied absence of touch that marked out Thomas's love for him- how carefully considerate he was to never be improper. And then, of course, the _looks_ that Thomas gave him- always glancing away if he were caught- but still repeating his mistakes, as if he couldn't help himself. Thomas would look over Jimmy's body- or his face- with an expression that gave too much away.

_It's sacrilegious, how much he loves me,_ Jimmy thought, watching the movements of Thomas's lips as he spoke- and then he was surprised at himself for the thought. Jimmy did not ascribe to any particular creed- so which religion, exactly, did he consider Thomas to be in violation of?

_All of them,_ Jimmy's mind supplied, and Jimmy had to suppress a shiver. His thoughts strayed to the blue-bound book, and he shifted in his chair. _I wonder what you've put in there,_ Jimmy mused, _that you're so afraid of anyone seeing. I wonder what you've put in about me._

"You're tired," Thomas said, misinterpreting Jimmy's distraction. "Yes," Jimmy lied, nodding. "But read one more."

"Short, long, or medium?" Thomas asked, his eyes moving across the pages.

"Medium," Jimmy said. "No. Long enough for one more cigarette." He held out his hand, and Thomas produced, again, the silver lighter- and a cigarette- and handed them to Jimmy.

Jimmy bade Thomas a good night after that, and walked across the hall to his room. He _moved_ calmly- as he had said good evening calmly- but Jimmy was not calm. He forced himself to change out of his livery before he sat down to read- and he washed his face, hurriedly, and pulled on is pyjamas, before fairly _running _across the three steps it took to get to his cot, to lift up the mattress.

For a second he was certain that the journal would be gone- but it was there, shining royal blue in the dim light, and Jimmy grasped it eagerly, and sat down on his bed. With a feeling of- _significance_- that was the only word for it- Jimmy opened the book, and looked at the first page.

The first thing that struck him was the handwriting- it was scratchy, and _dark_. In some places the nib of a pen had been pushed so hard against the paper as to make indents, probably into the next page, or the next few pages. Jimmy read the date at the top of the page- _23 July 1915_ - and then the words beyond it:

_Dearest Jack-_

_At your behest I have finally opened this little book- so charmingly insistent have you been in your letters that I must admit to being a bit swayed by your conviction. Though I confess I feel some small amusement. Your time at Oxford seems to be transforming you into a behaviorist. My imaginings of how father will react to the news that you've become more invested in the field of human study than in the noble pursuit of farming are a source of constant humor. At any rate I am going to keep this journal as you asked- and in the manner that you have said I must keep it- not as a catalogue of my days but as a diary of my creative impulses. Though I am still not certain how you think producing a few drawings or fragments of ill-constructed poetry will help me with my black moods... but nonetheless I will fill it- and if I am to make it out of this conflict alive, I vow that I shall press this journal someday into your hands, and be quite smug over your surprise at my having completed it._

_Perhaps you, too, will glean some truth from what I put in here. Even if I fail to improve my disposition in this endeavor- (and it is a difficult enough time for anybody to have a good disposition, let alone myself)- perhaps I can show you, a little, the horrors of war...I know you think being a soldier a most honorable pursuit, Jack. But you must listen to me- there is nothing noble about this. It is, put simply, a journey into Hell. However now I fear I am repeating conversations (arguments) that we have had before, one-sidedly. That is a most unfair thing to do, so I will cease- and let my further works speak for themselves._

_I give all my love and all of my thoughts to you. You are dear to me, and brilliant, and certain to someday be ranked among those great strange psychoanalysts whom you so admire. The Captain is calling us, and I must away- and now, before I slip into the realms of maudlin affection._

Jimmy sat back, feeling his throat grow tight with disappointment. Thomas, shockingly, had been telling the _truth_- it wasn't his journal. It wasn't _his_ at all. Everything was off- this seemed to be addressed to someone's brother- and Thomas, as far as Jimmy knew, had none. The tone of the sentences did not sound at _all_ like Thomas, either- and the handwriting- so jarring and dark- was incongruous with Jimmy's idea of him.

Jimmy made a fist and struck his bed in consternation. "Damn," he said, aloud. There were no great secret insights into the mind of Mr. Barrow, here. All Jimmy had done was taken something precious to him. _But precious why?_ Jimmy wondered. _Was this person a lover to him? A friend? What?_ With the thought of the stranger's significance in mind, Jimmy turned once again to the pages.

It wasn't a typical diary- the dates of the entries were scattershot, with several bits sometimes from the same day and then nothing for weeks. And the entries weren't _entries_, exactly- they were odd things- riddles, couplets, strange three-lined sentences that Jimmy took for little poems- and drawings.

_How could I fall to dreams, this sleepless bed/When all around, the dirges of the dead?_ read an entry dated _14 September 1915_. Underneath that, and from a few days later:

_When is a door not a door?_

_When I _adore _you, hah-hah._

-and underneath that:

_Even without conflict, everything we touch_

_Comes away marred, somehow- and this grander unpleasantness,_

_When it has done, will leave a scar- the once-beautiful world:_

_Reduced to charred ruins, gouges in the earth,_

_The ceaseless rain slicked mire- a ground filled up with blood_

_Where nothing will bloom, for a generation, as fitting punishment_

_For- Oh! The ugly follies of mankind!_

And then, on the next page, a drawing of a man leaning against a trench wall, artfully done. Jimmy, not a connoisseur of art, nonetheless admired the portrait, which was scratchy as the writing had been, and made up of thousands of uneven lines that somehow implied a perfect representation of a soldier. It was vividly illustrated- unsettling, but vivid. On the opposite page the writing was _very_ uneven, as though the author had been in some distress, and Jimmy had to squint to make it out.

_Today was an ugly day, Jack. Frould lost half his head, and I had to hold him while he died. I couldn't stop looking at the part of his face where his jaw had been blown away- I could see through the spot where his teeth had shattered, to the ragged stump of his tongue- and when he had his death convulsions, I held him close to my breast, and told him he was going to Paradise- but I must admit that my thoughts were with you- and Mother, and Father- and long lazy summer evenings after a day of hard labor, when the body is tired from good clean work, and the mind is, for once, at peace. I hope I shall know peace again when I am free of this place. I know you would laugh at that, and say that I am imagining things if I think I had known peace before- but it seems very peaceful to me now. An afternoon on the lake while you read aloud from your dense books, frightening away the fish- or a kiss from Theresa- or all three of us jumping from the knotted rope into the stream behind Mrs. Madgal's- these memories have taken on the tints of Utopia. Everything here is grey- and my memories are yellow and green, and hazy with light- so beautiful that I long to paint them._

"Hmm," Jimmy said, and flipped a few pages forward. _Not a cheery sort, were you? _Jimmy thought, evaluating the stranger. And not Thomas's lover, either, unless Theresa was a code-name.

One drawing halted Jimmy's impatient progression through the pages- it was a woman, seated, facing the viewer- but she wore no _clothes-_ and though the nakedness of her body was in some way voyeuristic- it was her _eyes_ that made the drawing so _indecent_. Her eyes were large, and naked as her body, and touched by pain. There was a subtitle, too, in the soldier's scrawl:

_On two-day leave the other boys bought me a woman- they say that I am always too serious- but when I went with her up to the room, I found her so lovely that I could not even bring myself to touch her-_

Jimmy frowned at the entry. These were odd things to put in a book for your _brother_, but Jimmy was getting the impression the bloke who'd penned them was a bit off. He began to flip through the pages- there were some narrative entries, but mostly it was fragmented poetry and strange, haunted drawings- always with such striking eyes- eyes that Jimmy didn't _like-_ because they peered up from the paper with such curious, luminous insistence. And lines from the few coherent entries that jumped out at him, exacerbating his unease-

_I know that Mother had you break the news of Theresa's engagement to me because she thought I would take it better from you. Tomorrow I will send you a careful note, so that you do not worry- but of course you could not know that she had already told me of her plans, and I was in agreement with them. Orly is a good bloke, and she adores him... you know I could have never made her happy, Jack, though she loved me- she was always afraid of my melancholy- _

_There are so many wounded men that their cries make me think of alleycats, a chorus of mewling creatures, begging my attention on this evening-_

_I had to shoot a German soldier in the head- I- can't, Jack- I think he was disoriented by the smoke and he came to the wrong trenches- poor chap, looking for comrades and finding only my unwelcoming hand-_

_It's blackness, all blackness, and my ill temper wraps around me like a shroud, changing the faces of my comrades into some monstrous visages-_

"That's enough of you," Jimmy said aloud, his skin prickling, and flipped through the journal's entirety without reading anymore. It was someone else's, then- and Thomas had been entrusted with its safekeeping, and Jimmy had stolen it fruitlessly. _Damn,_ he thought. _How am I going to return it without implicating myself?_

Then his hand stuttered, as he turned the pages of the book, and he took a surprised breath.

Halfway through the journal the _writing_ changed abruptly, and Jimmy blinked. Someone else's hand dominated the second half of the tome- a finer script, more looped and angular, and written with a pen pressed less heavily against the pages.

_What?_ Jimmy wondered, and found the page where the unknown soldier's writing stopped- on a drawing of three soldiers at cards, dated _24 March 1917_. On the next page the _new_ writer began- but these were undated. And they were poems- proper poems, not little three-sentence things. Jimmy squinted at the first entry- it was a verse, clearly- but so messy with crossed out words and lists of rhymes that he couldn't make it out. Jimmy turned the page over, and saw a rewritten copy of the poem:

_You fold, you bend, you cover me by thirds-  
You hold pockets of shadows with your mass,  
You stifle me, I'm pale,  
I have no words  
I am three strings, I open and I close  
I lay in lines horizon stretched, eternally  
An offered glimpse of birds, the broken part of me-  
A treeline will emerge, as if the heart of me  
Were wooden and oblique, made in a factory  
Where gears in darkness creep, like rats, a rectory-  
And others work in sun-struck attic space._

_You fold, you bend, your flowers are ornate_  
_My pieces spin within the airless room-_  
_Your reds, your blues recall a dinner plate- your greens_  
_Are frankly vulgar, yet I hope-_  
_The silken thread that holds you back, your golden rope-_  
_Your prison, your restraint, your gathered cloth-_  
_Without you, I am naked, all is lost-_  
_but with you I belong, just two conceits_  
_For someone's view, for lightning and for sun,_  
_For rain, for snow, for ice, for sleet- for_  
_Fleeting seasons, bitterness, and sweets._

"What?" Jimmy said aloud- and looked at the page across- only to see a clumsy drawing of a window. The person who'd drawn it was not an artist, as the soldier was. The lines were oddly straight- as if whomever had done the sketch had used another piece of paper to trace lines against- but the curtains were malformed, and shadowed wrongly.

_Oh,_ Jimmy thought. _Curtains over a window. That's clever._ His heart was beating rather quickly in his chest, and Jimmy realized it was because he was in the grip of an idea he had not fully articulated to himself:

_What if the author of the second half is _Thomas_?_

Yes. Yes. It made sense. The soldier had died- or lost his book- or- or _something_- and Thomas had, in that weird, secret, _soppy_ way that he sometimes, unexpectedly, displayed- had decided, with all of his misplaced sentimentality, to finish out the "creative journal". Yes. Jimmy was not certain that it was the truth- but he could easily _imagine_ it. _That would explain the lack of dates or names or anything,_ Jimmy decided. _He's paranoid. And for good reason- I _have_ stolen it, haven't I?_

Suddenly the book, which had lost all of its appeal when it belonged to the unnamed brother of Jack the Junior Behaviorist, was the most fascinating thing Jimmy had ever possessed, and he ran his finger against the pages. _Oh, Thomas, I am going to know everything about you, _Jimmy thought, wondering if there was any hint within the verses- perhaps later- about _himself_.

Something about himself- yes. And if only Jimmy could find that _something_, properly articulated in these pages- then he could understand _why _Thomas loved him.

_And when I understand it-_ Jimmy thought, holding the book close, and crawling under his coverlet- _when I understand _why_- then I won't have to think about it so much anymore._

So Jimmy sat back, in grave anticipation- and began to read.


	3. Chapter 3

It had been a week since the blue journal had gone missing. The idea of O'Brien reading it and re-reading it- trying, probably, to find something incriminating- set Thomas's teeth on edge. _She won't find anything_, Thomas thought, grimly. Well- he hadn't been careful about the _pronouns_, in some places- but even if his handwriting matched the handwriting in the second half of the book, it wasn't enough. Thomas was safe, and still his skin itched at the thought of O'Brien laying hands upon the journal that had once been Lieutenant Courtenay's. _I want it back,_ Thomas thought- and O'Brien was _leaving_ in another week at most. _I'll have to say something to her before she goes,_ Thomas had decided. He would beg if he needed to- Thomas could suspend his ego for the time it took to unabashedly grovel, and then find his self-worth still intact at the end. _But O'Brien knows that, _Thomas admitted to himself. _Begging doesn't work on her._

He would have to try. And if that didn't work he would have to find a way to get into her room and search it. The idea of her passing the book around made his pulse race. _Suppose she showed it to Jimmy_, Thomas thought, the idea profoundly uncomfortable._ I suppose I could lie, and say it wasn't mine- but I've already told him about it, so-_

It was a circular chain of thought, and one that had dogged Thomas for the week in its entirety. This was the end of the second week of his infirmity. Doctor Clarkson has assured him that his cracked rib would be relatively healed within three weeks, and he could then return to work- but Thomas had already returned, in an unofficial capacity. Carson was teaching him some of the finer points of all the bills and paperwork he had to keep in check while he was left in charge, and so Thomas had gotten to sit at Carson's desk for many hours, doing Carson's work, and imagine himself as butler to all of Downton. _Eventually_, Thomas thought, privately. He had made no other plans for his life.

Jimmy had come to see him every night this past week, staying long into the evening. It seemed that Jimmy kept late hours. Thomas couldn't help his happiness at the ease of their camaraderie- perhaps he had been _wrong_ about Jimmy in some respects- but he had been correct in thinking that they were alike, at least, in some aspects of temperament and worldview. It hurt to be around Jimmy, though- Thomas was plagued by a painful depth of feeling for him. The feeling occupied his chest, mostly, looming like a chasm beneath his day-to-day emotions. No, not like a chasm- like a bottomless _abyss_- a hole in the universe- a crack in the fabric of his being. No description that Thomas could imagine, no matter how ostentatious, quite captured the scope of it. But the enjoyment Thomas stole from their time together outweighed the pain he felt, and made him eager, as the hours drew towards darkness each evening, for the pleasure of Jimmy's company.

As the days wore on Thomas found himself concerned for Jimmy's well-being. Jimmy's typical unlined good looks had been marked by sleeplessness- now he sported dark circles, obvious as bruises, under his eyes. Thomas did not want to ask after him, or seem overly solicitous- and so he said nothing. But privately he worried that it was his fault- that Jimmy came to see him out of a sense of obligation and stayed far too long, costing himself sleep in the process.

One evening, while Thomas had been taking his turn at reading, he had glanced up to find Jimmy asleep in the desk chair, slumped over to the side.

"Jimmy," Thomas had said, not wanting to _touch_ him to wake him up. "Jimmy-" and Jimmy had snapped awake, looking quite startled for a moment- blankly his eyes had settled on Thomas- and then he had seemed to remember where he was. "Sorry," Jimmy had said, tiredly. "I must've nodded off."

"You- don't _have_ to come and visit me, y'know," Thomas said, though it pained him to do so.

"Oh, I'm always awake for hours in my room after I leave, anyways," Jimmy said. "Don't worry. It's not you that keeps me awake."

"Oh. Alright," Thomas had replied, relieved, and Jimmy left. _I wonder what keeps him awake_, Thomas mused- but made himself drop _that _line of thinking. Sometimes people just couldn't sleep.

Thomas started taking his meals with the rest of the staff again, throwing accusatory looks at O'Brien all the while, which she studiously ignored. Jimmy sat across from him at breakfast and dinner- and after dinner he would play the piano. "Nothing too _loud_," Carson had warned him, one evening. There had been no music played upstairs at all since Matthew Crawley had died.

After breakfast on that particular day Thomas had sat on Anna's Bates-less side, and smiled at her as nicely as he could manage before coffee- in all honesty, the expression probably looked rather strained on him- and she smiled slightly in return. "And are you going to America?" He asked, quietly.

"Can't," Anna said, in an undertone. "I wouldn't go without Mr. Bates- and I don't think the house can bear to lose both a butler and a valet at the same time."

Thomas had tried, several times, to imagine what Lady Mary felt like- felt like _right now_- but each time he failed. He knew what it was to lose somebody you cared for- but he hadn't ever really been _in love,_ not with any of his lovers. Thomas knew that the sharpness of the pain he felt over certain old affairs had grown inevitably dulled by time, or something- but still he could not remember ever having felt affection for anyone quite so acutely as he did for Jimmy.

So, to expand his empathy for Lady Mary- Thomas _had_ spent a great many hours confined to bed, and therefore had possessed a lot of time to waste 'thinking things over'- Thomas had tried to imagine _Jimmy_ dying, Jimmy dead, Jimmy in the ground with rot slowly eating away at him. It hurt, but not that much- it was only fantasy, after all, and Thomas couldn't really picture Jimmy and mortality in the same room. Jimmy seemed so _alive_, in his odd secretive way.

Thomas's relationship with Jimmy didn't exactly have the same _depth_ as Lady Mary's with Matthew Crawley had. _At least Mr. Crawley returned her affections_, Thomas thought. And loved her. And married her. And went to bed with her. And all the things that Thomas would never do with _his _love.

Part of why Thomas was so preoccupied with his feelings towards Jimmy- and had been for such a _long_ time- was because he did not understand where they'd come from. Yes, Jimmy was handsome- and yes, Thomas had wanted to be with him- but there were so many handsome people in the world. Thomas had, when he was younger, always felt he was a bit _apart_ from the world- not quite moved by the feelings of others. Emotional crisis could provoke Thomas into a few tears, but he had always recovered, and soon. So there was no accounting for what had come over him- a year out, and still the _sight_ of Jimmy moved him.

_It could be_ _because I always see him, every day,_ Thomas had told himself. And yet Jimmy had been, for a year, snide and unpleasant around him- and it did not sway Thomas, particularly, away from loving him.

Thomas examined himself for signs of despicable weakness, and found several. He did not appreciate Jimmy being the one thing that made him able to suspend his pride for extended periods of time. And yet- and yet he also felt that his wouldn't trade his feeling of curious unhappiness, of unrequited love, for anything in the world.

_Well_, Thomas amended, _I'd trade it for _requited _love_.

Eventually Thomas had examined himself for hope- hope, that old traitor to rationality- and he found that he was, secretly- deep down, in a place he didn't like to look- still _wondering_ about Jimmy. Not wondering if Jimmy returned his feelings- obviously he did _not_- but wondering if he even... if he ever had... Thomas didn't know what he wondered. Jimmy was so closed-off that he could have inferred any number of different things, and still never known if his assessment of the other man's character was correct or not.

So _why,_ then, would you fall in love with a person you knew nothing about?

_Because you're a terrible judge of character, that's why,_ Thomas told himself- but sometimes he believed that was true, and sometimes he didn't. Sometimes he felt as though he loved Jimmy because there was a secret under his blank-slate facade- or a _library_ of secrets, a whole mysterious person, someone that nobody else knew. Thomas almost felt that he could _see_ that person, sometimes, in the little ways that Jimmy gave himself away.

Or maybe not. You never could tell.

After breakfast, Thomas followed O'Brien to the courtyard. They had not exchanged more than a few curt words at a time for an entire year, and her eyes widened when she saw him approach her- but then her face settled, as usual, into an unreadable expression.

"Hello," Thomas said, and pulled out a cigarette with a flourish. "I want my book."

"What?" O'Brien said, and Thomas's heart sank at her look of confusion. _It's going to be like that, then._

"Don't pretend you don't know," Thomas said. "You have it, and I want it back."

O'Brien regarded him in the sunlight, the corners of her mouth turned down. "I don't know what you mean."

"My _book_, my blue book," Thomas said. The idea of her handling the book- reading the Lieutenant's words- made Thomas angrier than if the journal had belonged to him alone. Angrier- and more anxious to get it back.

"I know you have it but there's _nothing_ in there that you can use against me, and you're leaving, anyways," Thomas said. He was straying into _pleading_- or he would be, soon, though he was doing a poor job at it- the hand that curled around his cigarette was almost a fist.

"I don't know what you're-"

"Oh come _off_ it, for once in your damned life," Thomas snapped, and O'Brien had the grace to look slightly alarmed. "I want the bloody thing _back._"

"I've told you I don't have anything of yours," O'Brien said, with a bite to her voice. "I know when I've been _beaten_. Have I said a word against you, this past year?"

Thomas, torn between laughter at how dismally similar the pair of them could be, and desperation over his book, could only incline his head. "I don't know. Have you?"

O'Brien looked past him, her expression fixed- but her _eyes_ gave away an enormous amount of some unpleasant emotion. "I wouldn't," she said. "Not when you know-" but then she shook her head and turned away, walking around him and back towards the house.

"I want it back!" Thomas called, and pitched his cigarette- and O'Brien stepped into the house, closing the door behind her. Thomas caught up an instant later, and pushed angrily into the servant's hall, jarring himself and making his ribs ache in the process.

O'Brien had already gone through, and the only person in the hall was Jimmy, who looked up at Thomas from the piano, his features molded into an expression of slight concern. "What was that?" He asked, and Thomas ran a hand through his own hair, angrily. "It's like getting water from a stone, with that one," Thomas said, and sat down at the table.

"You were fighting with her?" Jimmy asked, rising from the bench. His expression grew more concerned, and Thomas tried not to let his gaze dwell too long on Jimmy's face.

"About _what_?' Jimmy prompted, at Thomas's terse nod. Jimmy looked as though he had been rising to go to work, but now he lingered at Thomas's side, staring down at him with squinted eyes.

"She took something from me," Thomas said, with a heavy sigh that made his chest twinge. Restlessly he tapped his fingers against the table. When he hazarded a glance up at Jimmy, he saw distress etched, for a moment, on the other man's features- certainly his eyebrows had knit together in worry- but then Jimmy composed himself, still peering at Thomas intently. "Your book?" Jimmy asked, and Thomas nodded again. Hearing someone else give voice to his dilemma made it all the more distressingly real.

"But you don't know that for sure," Jimmy said, and Thomas took a breath. "I have a good idea," he said, but Jimmy swayed back and forth on his heels, uncomfortably. "You shouldn't antagonize her," Jimmy said, worriedly.

Thomas attempted not to be overly moved by Jimmy's care for him. "That's very kind of you- to concern yourself- but I really have to-" Thomas began, and broke off when Carson entered the room, starting to stand. Carson waved a hand at him. "Please don't get up, Thomas. James, you're needed upstairs."

"Yes, sir," Jimmy said, and cast one last look over at Thomas, before exiting.

Thomas was in a deadly mood by dinner. Two times he had looked through the door to the women's quarters, an on both occasions he had heard people moving about, and so he had not been able to search O'Brien's room.

When everyone sat down to eat, Thomas stared at O'Brien with such pointed intensity that he could almost see her shift under his stare. Across the table Jimmy was giving him a _look_, and when Thomas opened his mouth to speak, Alfred cut him off.

"Ah, that _hurt_!" Alfred said, from his seat next to Thomas, and Jimmy nodded apologetically.

"Sorry, sorry," Jimmy said, ducking his head. "Accident."

"You kicked me really har-"

"I said it was an _accident_," Jimmy said, glaring at him.

"And I said it was-"

Thomas ignored their usual bickering, turning his gaze towards Miss O'Brien, and opened his mouth again. _I didn't want to have to do it like this,_ Thomas thought, coldly,_ but I'll make it public if it's my only way of getting my book back-_ and he said "Miss O'Brien, I was wondering if you had by any chance-"

"-Perhaps Lord Grantham will _close his married eyes, break _precedent_, and give us heaven_," Jimmy said, very loudly, over Thomas. "This weekend, I mean," Jimmy said, when every set of eyes had turned to him in bewilderment. "In the form of a half-day, I mean," Jimmy finished. His cheeks had turned rather pink, and he cleared his throat, looking down at his plate.

Mr. Carson huffed. "There is no reason why Lord Grantham is obligated to give you _extra_ time off, James. Especially considering recent events."

"With all due respect, sir," Mr. Bates put in, "It has been a very difficult time for everyone. Both upstairs and down."

O'Brien was looking at Thomas warily- expecting him to continue what he had been saying before he was interrupted- but Thomas had forgotten whatever it was that he intended to accomplish. His utensils shook in his hands, and he set them down abruptly. In Thomas's own ears his pulse sounded very loud.

_"-'Closes his married eyes, breaks precedent, and gives them Heaven'-'' _Jimmy had said- he had said _some_ close variation of that- and Thomas _knew_ that phrase- he _remembered _that phrase- because he had _written _it. He took a sharp breath at the realization. _Jimmy_ had his book. Jimmy who had been so _concerned_ over his anxiety at the journal's loss.

Thomas's arms broke out in gooseflesh at the incomprehensible depth of Jimmy's duplicitousness, and he looked uneasily at Jimmy for a moment, trying to process this new knowledge, but Jimmy continued staring at the contents of his plate.

Around the table the extra-time-off debate went on. "We could do it in shifts over three days," Mrs. Hughes was saying to Mr. Carson, who looked quite outraged that the suggestion was being given any consideration at all. "Then everyone will have a chance to go out if they want to, and have a meal or take in a picture-"

Thomas staggered to his feet, mindless of the pain in his chest. "I'm exhausted, please excuse me," he mumbled to the table. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Jimmy look up at him abruptly, but he ignored that, and turned on his heel, striding from the hall as quickly as his legs would take him.

Upstairs he stopped in the hall, his breath coming in at a quick, unhappy pace, and he took a few steps back and forth between his door and Jimmy's, trying to think. Thomas ran his fingers through his own hair, his anxiety betraying itself in the trembling of his hands- and then he decided himself on a course of action- and, with a flash of uncomfortable déjà vu, he grasped the handle on the door of Jimmy's room.

"I'm not in there," Jimmy said, from behind him, and Thomas jumped a foot in the air, startling back with a wince. Jimmy had come up on him without his noticing, and he was standing innocuously in the hallway, his posture slumped as it would never have been while he was working, his hands in his pockets, a newspaper tucked under one arm.

Thomas stared at him, his mouth agape.

"I'm right here," Jimmy said, though he wouldn't meet Thomas's eyes, "-if you were looking for me." With one shoulder he indicated Thomas's bedroom door. "A bit of after-dinner reading?"

"You have my book," Thomas said, flatly. Inside he did not feel so emotionless. In fact he felt as if he might be ill.

"Let's discuss it in here," Jimmy answered, evenly, and opened Thomas's door. He stepped inside without waiting for Thomas to answer him, and Thomas stood alone in the hallway for a moment, pressing the flats of his hands against his eyes. Jimmy- Jimmy, who he had ascribed so _much_ to- was no better than the worst of the men he'd ever cared for. Thomas was reminded involuntarily of the Duke, tossing his letters into the fire-

_Oh, please,_ Thomas thought, pierced by a sudden fear, _don't let him have burned it._ He couldn't bear if everything the Lieutenant had put to paper were to be destroyed.

In his room Jimmy was sitting in the desk chair, his face composed. Thomas shut the door behind himself, and regarded Jimmy for a moment. Jimmy looked back at him- and Thomas caught a flash of discomfort- or something- on Jimmy's face- but it was there and gone, as if he had imagined it.

Thomas took a step nearer to him. "You stole my book," he said, his tone tinged with venom. "I want it back. Now."

"It's fascinating, you know," Jimmy said, his attention on the floorboards. "You're quite talented. But it's not really _your_ book, is it?"

"It was _given_ to me," Thomas lied, coming to stand over Jimmy, who looked up at him, blinking several times.

"I have some of them memorized," Jimmy said. Thomas was not sure what he meant by _them_, but then Jimmy took a breath, and said:

"In the beginning, hunger was the _All_-  
The hunger of a Goddess in the dark  
A world of caverns, icicles of rock  
A hunger uncajoled, unchained, _unmocked-"_

"_Stop _it," Thomas hissed, and turned away from him, reaching out to the desk to steady himself on it.

"That's the _Apologia_," Jimmy said, as if Thomas hadn't cut him off. "I think that the beginning is a bit weak, but by the end it's beautiful, Thomas. Just lovely. You're an artist-"

"I don't want to be mocked," Thomas said, whirling around angrily. "I just want my bloody book back, and then we never have to speak again-"

"I'm not _mocking _you," Jimmy said, hastily. His cheeks were pink again, but his eyes were wide. Thomas, however, was hardly swayed by the convincing expression of sincerity that played across Jimmy's face.

"I'm _not_," Jimmy insisted. "I'm going to give it back, anyways."

"Yes," Thomas answered, through his teeth. "_Now_."

"No," Jimmy said, standing up. Perhaps Thomas had made him uncomfortable by looming over him. Thomas found he didn't _care _about Jimmy's comfort at the moment. "Not yet," Jimmy went on, in a reasonable tone. "I'll give it back after you-"

But Thomas wasn't about to listen to a bloody _negotiation_, and he stepped away from Jimmy, towards his door. "I'll just get it now, then," Thomas said, tightly, and began to lift the latch.

Jimmy was at his side, suddenly, shoving the door shut with the flat of his hands. For a moment they struggled together, Jimmy leaning his weight against the door and Thomas pulling it back, and then Thomas gathered all of his strength, and _wrenched_ the door open as hard as he could, injuring himself in the process, and sending Jimmy stumbling backwards. Jimmy looked at him, panting, his face white and twisted into a curious sneer. Thomas looked him over and then turned away from him, taking a step into the hall-

"If you put one _toe_ in my bedroom I'll have the police here faster than you can bloody _blink_," Jimmy snarled, and Thomas turned back at the venom in his tone.

"I will," Jimmy said, his voice wavering when Thomas looked at him. "Don't think I won't."

"I think you will," Thomas said, coolly. "But not before I tell Carson you've stolen something of mine."

"You _wouldn't_," Jimmy said, looking stunned. "It's not even _yours-_"

"It was my lover's," Thomas bit out, untruthfully, and Jimmy grinned- a grin more like a grimace, really. "Oh, of course, your _lover_," Jimmy said. "Your lover the unknown soldier. He was in love with both you and _Theresa_, then, yes?"

The idea of Jimmy poring over the Lieutenant's words- and making a mockery of them now- was more than Thomas could bear, really, and he was overcome with a sudden urge to _hit_ Jimmy, hard, across the face- or better still exclusively across his terrible lying _mouth_. It was an impulse towards violence that Thomas had rarely ever felt- certainly not with _Jimmy_, whom Thomas typically wanted to treat only with the greatest tenderness- but then the desire was gone. Instead Thomas settled for putting his head in his own hands.

"What's the matter?" Jimmy asked, his voice wiped of all the malice it had oozed with, seconds before. At his inquiry Thomas let out a mirthless little laugh, and forced himself to stand upright. He met Jimmy's eyes.

"Jimmy," Thomas said- _"Why_ are you doing this?"

And then a curious thing happened- Thomas _watched_ Jimmy for a moment, very closely- and he saw a flash of the strangest fear flicker across Jimmy's face, so acute that it gave him a pang of sympathy. It was _fear_, but not only that- fear, and longing, and anxiety, and anger- all of these things and more played across the visage of the other man, as if his moods were fluid, like water- and Thomas was almost rendered breathless by it. It was, perhaps, the closest he had ever been to seeing who Jimmy really was.

_He doesn't _know_ why,_ Thomas thought- and the thought was like a beam of sunlight, illuminating an entire landscape that had been lost in shadow. _He has no _idea _why he's done it._

"I- _because_-" Jimmy floundered around for a reason, and then only crossed his arms in front of himself- and Thomas felt hope- that old seducer- come to sit on his shoulder again.

"I want my book back," Thomas said, more gently, this time, and Jimmy shook his head _no_. "I'm not ready to give it back," Jimmy said, almost whispering. "But I _will_. I swear it." With this he brushed by Thomas, grasping at the latch on the door. "I have to go to bed now," Jimmy said, tightly. "But I'll come and visit you tomorrow."

Thomas turned around to watch him go, and Jimmy stepped out without a backwards glance, shutting the door after himself. After a beat Thomas slumped down in the wooden chair that Jimmy had sat in, his heart still beating too quickly. _He doesn't know why he's doing it,_ Thomas told himself, and tried not to speculate overmuch on Jimmy's motivations- lest Hope entwine him in her crushing arms and- with her many graces- ruin him once more.


	4. Chapter 4

Alone in his room -with his heart still beating wildly after his encounter with Thomas- Jimmy sat half under the coverlet, flipping back and forth between two pages in the journal- one near the beginning and one situated almost at the end.

The first page marked by Jimmy's finger had a poem on it penned by the unknown soldier. _I'll have to ask Thomas what his name was,_ Jimmy thought. _When he's in a mood to speak civilly with me again, that is. _He read the poem over- the soldier rarely used rhymes, and so his words never quite stuck with Jimmy the way that Thomas's did. This one Jimmy found particularly gruesome, and he could feel his forehead crease in distaste as he read it again:

_His arms drooled blood._  
_His face passed through a spectrum_  
_of changes. Veins ripped through his skin. His_  
_joints broke and stretched and repaired themselves._  
_His scalp blistered and shook and vomited up _  
_hair, his ribs cracked his chest in two_  
_and the musculature underneath reworked itself._  
_His eyes widened, nose breaking and elongating._  
_He screamed throughout it,_  
_unconscious but in tremendous pain,_  
_and his voice dropped, his throat constricting around it terribly._  
_He oozed saliva and gibbered, he twisted in the sheets,_  
_Now bloody, now healed, _  
_now dead, now with a growing heart-_

Underneath this rather unlovely verse was a drawing of a marionette, and Jimmy grimaced. It was, to his thinking, a particularly awful retelling of _The Adventures of Pinocchio_.

Of course there was no greater contrast to the first half of the blue book than the second half- and Jimmy turned to the page near the back of the book. On this page was a finished and re-copied version of the _Apologia_- the only poem Thomas had actually titled, though in Jimmy's opinion it was far from his best. _Must be _his _favorite, though_, Jimmy thought- and he moved his lips along with the poem as he re-read its pretty lines:

_Apologia._

_In the beginning, hunger was the All-_  
_The hunger of a goddess in the dark_  
_A world of caverns, icicles of rock_  
_A hunger uncajoled, unchained, unmocked_

_And she was lovely, but immodest, yes_  
_The darkness was as thick, as thick as jam_  
_And in it, curses crawled and monsters swam, _  
_I think, in pain like sauce, like soiled ink-_

_And something foul, some incest or rape,_  
_That grew upon that surly love's thick nape_  
_Like three fall doors, three gnashing sets of teeth_  
_Or madness, or delusion, or red crêpe-_

_Or _blood_- a crime on many floors-_  
_A love that bloomed like mushrooms in the dark,_  
_A crawling vast abyss, a chasm's brink-_

_Or,_

_In another varied view-_  
_He was a handsome prince, but noble and too cruel-_  
_He begged, he fell in love, he played the fool-_  
_So in the end she loved him, and they slept_  
_In sweet comforting darkness, and they kept_  
_The pomegranate for_  
_ the altar of their love._

_When winter ends- and long dead lands _  
_Assault themselves with blooms-_  
_Their denizens rejoice with pagan rites-_  
_Persephone, alone in Mother's rooms_  
_Thinks endlessly of caverns, winter nights-_

_And Morpheus avoids his uncle's realm-_  
_For Hades, mad without her, mans the helm_  
_Of an enormous ship he takes to sea_  
_And souls, in waves beneath him, tumble guilessly_  
_Across a grim and vast expanse of _  
_Emptiness and_  
_ feverish bad dreams._

_But then,_  
_The summer ends, and She returns!_  
_And for his countrymen the King of Death _  
_Throws up his arms, their burden leavens:_  
_Closes his married eyes,_  
_ breaks precedent,_  
_and gives them Heaven._

Jimmy smiled at the end, as he always did. It wasn't that the beginning wasn't a touch _dark_- but unlike the soldier's grim interior monologues, Thomas's bits of writing were- were high-handed- and lovely, in a way. Lovelier still for being a bit clumsy. Romantic, really- as if Thomas had the secret soul of a poet. _And so he does,_ Jimmy thought, smirking to himself. _Obviously. _

There was something so touchingly _hopeful_ in the things that Thomas wrote- rather not like the cynic he presented himself as so convincingly. Scattered through his verses were tints of sadness and then sudden beauty, bright as sunbeams. Jimmy turned to another of Thomas's poems, this one much closer to the middle- just a few pages after the drawing of a window.

_'Oh arrogant, again I say alas,' _it read-_ 'I hold the cup of wine disguised as water-'_

Jimmy paused in his reading, drawing a sharp breath, as a floorboard creaked in the hall. Quickly he stowed the book under his mattress, and pulled the coverlet over his head, though the lights in his room were still turned on. Jimmy was more than half-convinced that Thomas was going to come bursting into his bedroom and rip the book from his hands, threats of police or no. _You do that and I'll hit you, I promise I will,_ Jimmy thought, from inside his dim cocoon. _Don't you bloody _dare _try taking my book._

But after several minutes the specter of Thomas Barrow turned out just to be settling of an old house, and Jimmy relaxed, and pried his blue book from underneath the mattress once more. He read it aimlessly- Jimmy had read the contents of the journal in its entirety by the fourth night, and now just looked over his favorite parts. In a passing way he had committed a few lines to memory. And the poems that Jimmy thought might be referencing _him_ lingered in his mind- a few vague verses about a golden somebody, a crossed out song about Narcissus that Jimmy had needed full sunlight to decipher- _Narcissus_- that was a bit insulting- and even, perhaps, Persephone. Jimmy had not failed to notice the messy 'S' that had been added into the _Apologia_, in many places- as if by afterthought- transforming _he_ into _she_. It was _he_ in all the drafts on the pages before, each unfinished copy garnished with Thomas's lists of rhyming words. And in the original version it had been _god-_ not _goddess_- but apparently Thomas's common sense had won out, and he had opted not to describe Persephone as a _man_. _Fits better, anyhow,_ Jimmy thought. _More syllables or something._

Jimmy had thought before, and would probably think again, that it was impossible to truly _know_ another person- to know them all the way down- to the core of who they were. Or to know someone in a way that was significant at all, really. People were islands unto themselves, and all the halfhearted bridges communication built could never quite span the gap.

But if there ever _had_ been anything to span the gap, Jimmy thought, his hands on the spine of the book- it would have to be this.

_Do I understand you better now?_ Jimmy wondered. There were so many _hints_ as to who Thomas might be, pressed into verse and rhyme- but no one definitive _answer. _That was what had kept Jimmy up these many nights, hunting through the pages for clues.

But truthfully Jimmy wondered if he wasn't raising more questions for himself. He was struck, as he turned the book in his palms, by a flash of memory- Thomas at the table of the servant's hall, regarding him with all the intensity of desire, his lips forming words- _"We both like to look very sure of ourselves, but we're not so sure underneath, are we?" _

An odd attempt at seduction. And really it revealed more about Thomas than anything else, Jimmy mused, leaning back against the pillows. Thomas Barrow, insecure and ultimately alone. Thomas Barrow, secret author of romantic verse. Thomas Barrow, who had looked like he was going to _strike _Jimmy for a moment, in his room- so precious to him was the blue book.

It was early, still- but Jimmy felt a week of sleepless evenings pressing against his eyelids. The book lay opened atop his chest, a comforting weight- and Jimmy closed his eyes. _Just for a moment_, he thought -_and then I'll... I'll keep reading-_

And then Jimmy woke up, with a jolt, to the sound of his alarm, and realized that it was morning.

"Hmph," he said, reaching over to shut off the clock. Pre-dawn gloom flooded through his curtains, and Jimmy groped around, frantically, for the volume of verse- but his book had only slid to the side, and was still safely with him, on the mattress. Jimmy realized, after a pause, that he had left the lights on in his room, so soundly had he fallen asleep- and for a moment he thought, involuntarily, of a line from one of Thomas's untitled poems-

_"But it pursued me back into the dawn- I wake up gasping, find the lights left on-"_

Jimmy rose from the bed. Ah. Yes. That had been from one closer to the end. And a very _colorful_ piece, at that.

Jimmy shaved carefully, seeing how much of that particular poem he could recall- he had read it less times than the others- honestly because it made him _embarrassed_, a bit- not for himself so much as for Thomas, who had been born with a strange affliction that set him apart from other people. _He fancies men, which is supposed to be unacceptable, right, I understand_, Jimmy thought. _So why does he go _on_ about it so?_

And Thomas did- go _on_ about it- in the book, that was- as if his romantic aspirations had just as much legitimacy as anybody else's. _You know, I think I respect that, in a way,_ Jimmy thought, wiping his face and applying his aftershave. Not that _Jimmy_ would have been proud of something that marked him out as- as tainted, or different. Even the idea of people _mistaking_ him for one of that sort was- _terrible_, loathsome, unbearable- but then Jimmy didn't like people thinking _anything_ about him.

"He cannot know, or find me in the world-" Jimmy said aloud, dressing himself. "Into the starry void our _love _I hurled- but it pursued me back into the _dawn _- I wake up _gasping_, find the lights left on-"

Jimmy laughed at his own dramatic emphasis, and regarded himself in the mirror- a last thorough going-over. "Have never even had him in my _bed_," Jimmy went on, making a mock-serious expression. "But _want_ him, yes, that much may go unsaid-"

Hmm. He couldn't remember the next line after that, and so Jimmy stopped. He met his own eyes in the mirror- and then looked over his own face, taking in the flush that had risen to his cheeks. _Well, of course you blush to think of it,_ Jimmy told himself. _It's perverse._

Jimmy grasped for his book, and finding it, tucked it up inside his jacket, under his arm- and slipped into the hall. The smell of his own aftershave was still strong, and smelling it on himself made Jimmy think of the scent of Thomas's aftershave, and how it had been some time since that particular fragrance had reached him. _His face is too cut up for him to wear any, obviously,_ Jimmy thought, as he walked, undetected- and very cautiously- upstairs.

But thinking of Thomas's injuries made him think of the _fight_- and that brought with it a slew of indecipherable feelings, each one bathed in guilt. Better to think of aftershave, Jimmy decided- though even that thought was evocative- smell being the sense Jimmy had always found best for conjuring up feeling, or memories. The smell of Thomas's aftershave was many things- expensive- or more expensive than _Jimmy's_ toiletries, anyways- masculine, certainly- but it also made Jimmy think of eyes on him when they shouldn't be, and an awkward year, and having to stand too close to someone when you'd rather not.

Jimmy stowed the journal in the bottom drawer of a bureau in an unused guest room, and then made it back downstairs without anyone catching him out. Carson's office door was cracked open, and within it Jimmy could hear the butler's voice, counterpointing Thomas's.

"I know you've kept the inventory," Thomas was saying, with a laugh in his voice. "I'll keep it in mind if I get _thirsty_-"

"It is no laughing matter," Carson replied, sternness evident in his tone. "I must say I am afraid the power is already going to your head. Need I remind you yet _again_ that Mrs. Hughes is the final authority while I am away?"

Jimmy heard footsteps behind him, and continued on to the servant's hall, as though he had never stopped to listen in. He couldn't quite get a handle on Carson's relationship with Thomas- Carson liked Alfred, loved Lady Mary, adored Mrs. Hughes, _hated_ Jimmy himself, for whatever reason- but about Thomas he seemed truly ambivalent. Sometimes Jimmy could have sworn that Carson _despised _Thomas- and other times he treated Thomas as you would an errant, if favorite, child- and then there were brief moments- when Thomas had handled something particularly well- where Carson had addressed him with a sincere- if grudging- respect.

_Nobody knows how they feel about anything,_ Jimmy thought, and sat down to breakfast. His appetite was better than it had been- and now that he had neatly handled the whole mess between Thomas and O'Brien- nothing weighed on him with any particular urgency- except for the anticipation of the evening, when he could be alone with his favorite book. And the conversations with Thomas before, which might be hostile but could definitely be counted upon to be _interesting_.

Thomas eventually came to join them at breakfast, and he gave Jimmy a look as though he were mad when Jimmy pulled out a chair for him. "You look much improved, Mr. Barrow," Jimmy said- and Thomas- his eyebrows ascending into a perfect look of incredulity- hesitated, and then sat.

"I want my book back," Thomas said to Jimmy, out of the corner of his mouth, as they passed the toast back and forth.

"Yes, Mr. Barrow, I'm aware of that," Jimmy said, all business- but he met Thomas's eyes while he did it- a glance of camaraderie that made Thomas look quickly away. Jimmy sighed. He felt, honestly, as if they had some great secret between them- as if they were _co-conspirators,_ almost- but obviously Thomas did not share his sentiments. _He's sore over it, of course,_ Jimmy thought. _But couldn't he just-_

-And Jimmy found that he did not have an end to that thought, so he let it lie.

Thomas's words and measures followed Jimmy through his day. In the dining hall where Lady Mary did not touch her food and there was silence all around the table, he thought _-__A thousand roses, mailed out on a lark- those yellow roses, yes, that met their mark-_

And when Alfred shoved him on the stairs as they made their way down, and with a laugh, Jimmy tried to trip him, he thought: _Once, a fear pierced him, on the old ascending stairs- _

In fact, wherever he looked Jimmy could not help but find a line of Thomas's in his mind. The phrases stuck in his head with all the ceaseless regularity of music, and when he sat at the piano he found he had nothing to play, so full of Thomas's words were his thoughts.

_In real life you would never be so verbose,_ Jimmy thought, hazarding a glance at the other man, who sat at the table, reading the paper to everyone. Jimmy did not know if Thomas reading the paper was intended as a slight- as in, _they_ would not be reading the paper together later- or if it was simply because Thomas was well enough to linger downstairs after dinner- or if it was an acknowledgement of the fact that he and Jimmy would have other things to discuss.

_Hmm_, Jimmy thought, turning back to the piano- and he began to pick out a maudlin little tune on the keys- something from his own invention- while behind him conversation went on.

The notes took on substance- it was a sad version of 'A Good Man is Hard to Find,' and Jimmy dragged out the notes and made the lower, infusing the tune with more melancholy than it already possessed. _Could use a song,_ Jimmy thought- his voice was low but manageable- and so he sang, lowly, the words coming to him all at once-

_"Once, a fear pierced him-" _Jimmy sang, his voice as sweet as he could make it-

_"On the old ascending stairs-  
Or at the slightest whim or nearest chairs-  
T'was rather grim, but then, who cares-  
He had no place in such affairs_

_And so retired, with his extra sleep-_  
_The house he lived in held the key I keep_  
_The keep I shut in, thin and never cheap_  
_Fell into tatters, sewing what I reap_

_And there's some given,_  
_Something rather deep-_

_But you divide those three things into thirds-_  
_And beg and lend your mind and write the words_  
_And I abscond with rhyme_  
_And make you love_  
_For black-birds -"_

Everyone ignored him, mostly- Jimmy hadn't been particularly loud- but still when he had finished, he turned around with trepidation, and found that Thomas was no longer in the room. _Did he leave when I started singing,_ Jimmy wondered, _or before?_

It didn't matter anyways. He hadn't meant anything by it. If Thomas wanted to take offense- and it seemed as though he _did_- Jimmy could live with that, too. Easily Jimmy excused himself for the evening, and went upstairs. For some reason his livery was irritating him- possibly because of the heat, which summer had conjured up with its last breath- and he thought he would put on his pyjamas before he went to glean all the information from Thomas that he could.

As soon as Jimmy went into his room he could see that it had been gone through- someone had tossed it and then put it back together, carefully- in the time after he had changed to serve dinner.

It gave Jimmy's room a curious feeling, as if it were the chamber of stranger- and Jimmy felt an odd prickling on the back of his neck- though of course he knew who the culprit had been. His bed was too neatly made- and the disarray on his vanity was slightly different than it had been before.

_We could play cards,_ Jimmy thought, changing into his evening clothes- and with this thought he tied a dressing gown over his pyjamas, and picked up his lucky deck of cards, letting his feet take him across the hall.

Thomas opened the door before Jimmy had even knocked, and gestured him in with a dark look.

"Too bad you couldn't find your book," Jimmy said, taking a wide step around Thomas, and settling in the desk chair. "You must've almost _touched_ it, it was still in the spot I hid it in-"

"I know you don't have it in your room," Thomas said, his expression tight.

"That's right, I don't," Jimmy said, and Thomas let out an audible sigh, and opened his desk drawer, and came to sit on the bed with a bottle of liquor.

"Care for some whiskey?' Thomas asked Jimmy, who shook his head firmly _no_. He needed to be in his right mind for this- but apparently Thomas didn't- because he took a swig from the neck of the bottle, and then set it down, wincing and bringing his hand to his split lip.

"Careful-" Jimmy said, but Thomas cut him off. "So, you're blackmailing me, then," Thomas said, without inflection, and Jimmy paused, nonplussed. "What? No, I-"

"-And you're going to keep humiliating me and making my stupid writing into _songs_ at dinner until I- until I _what_?" Thomas asked, his voice resigned. "What is it I have to do?"

"You don't have to- it isn't like _that_," Jimmy protested. "I'm not going to _tell_ anybody. I just wanted to-"

"You wanted to _what?_" Thomas asked, and pulled a cigarette from his pocket with a gesture of anger.

"I don't _know_," Jimmy ground out, annoyed at Thomas's dogged pursuit of this line of questioning.

"If you _don't know_ then you can give me my _book_ back," Thomas said, breathing out in an angry huff. Even Thomas's anger was articulate, Jimmy noticed- he would have never thought so before, but with the added insight of the poems he felt as though there were another layer to Thomas- a nuanced layer of awareness that existed just under everyday actions.

Jimmy decided to try a different approach, and he leaned forward in his chair, so that Thomas might have a better opportunity to take in his features, and perhaps be swayed by them. "What's the name of the soldier, anyhow? I assume he's dead."

Thomas laughed, a nasty edge to his voice. "Oh, assumption, that great precursor to wisdom."

"Don't be rude," Jimmy said. "I'm not bloody _Alfred,_ I can tell when you're making fun of me."

Thomas stared at him. "When _I'm_ making fun of _you_?"

"Just tell me about the damned soldier," Jimmy said, and Thomas glared at him. For a moment there was hostility- oh, a _vast_ depth of hostility between them- and Jimmy, who had never before had anything but kindness and understanding from Thomas, no matter how unpleasant he had been, was curiously hurt by it, as if Thomas had betrayed him.

"No," Thomas said, and Jimmy sighed, and reached one hand forward. "I'll have a cigarette, if you don't mind," he said, looking into Thomas's eyes.

"I mind," Thomas said- but he could not entirely keep himself looking angry- and his features softened when he handed Jimmy the cigarette.

"I was just curious," Jimmy said, accepting the silver lighter from Thomas. "Thank you. I was just curious. You know I'm curious about you. I didn't mean to steal the letters of your love."

"You just meant to steal _my_ letters," Thomas said.

"Mmm," Jimmy said, shaking his head. "Not steal. Just borrow."

Thomas regarded Jimmy quietly for a long moment, and Jimmy, discomfited by his scrutiny, said lamely: "C'mon, then, don't leave me out here with no answers."

It was meant half in jest- but apparently Jimmy had said the right thing, because Thomas nodded slowly, as if in agreement, his eyes far away- and then he nodded again. "Right. I won't. What exactly am I supposed to be telling you?"

Jimmy could not understand what had provoked Thomas's shift in mood. Or why Thomas had glanced at him, and then away- almost shyly, as if struck by tenderness. But, Jimmy thought, if the cards were in your favor it was best not to question it- and so he answered. "Tell me about the soldier- the mad soldier who had nightmares of zeppelins over London, and a genius brother, Jack-"

"No," Thomas said. "Something else."

Jimmy wondered if Thomas hadn't maybe been in love with the _soldier_ even more than he was in love with _Jimmy._ For some reason the idea depressed him- the soldier had belonged to a love of his own, and it hadn't been Thomas. Did Thomas just- drift around, loving people he could never have? _It must be the romantic in him,_ Jimmy thought.

"Tell me about the poem about the wine, then," Jimmy said- and at Thomas's uncomprehending look, Jimmy tossed out a line, as easily as breathing: "Oh _arrogant_, again I say alas- I hold the cup of wine disguised as water-"

Thomas held up a hand for him to stop. "Agnosticism," Thomas said, when Jimmy fell silent- and then Thomas tilted the bottle to his lips again.

"It's about... _agnosticism_?" Jimmy asked, and Thomas pressed two fingers to the split on his own lip with a frown.

"Yes," Thomas said, drawing out the word, as if irritated- but Jimmy could see that it was only to cover his own chagrin.

"That's... that very clever," Jimmy said, as the correctness of the answer made itself known to him. In his head he recited the verses, seeing the humor lent to them by the author's explanation. "That's very good, Thomas. I _love_ that," Jimmy went on, and Thomas ducked his head.

"Recite it, won't you?" Jimmy asked, but Thomas's eyes flew up to his, his mouth turning up at the corners. "God, _no_," Thomas said, and snorted.

"I'll recite it, then," Jimmy said, but Thomas shook his head vigorously and rose to his feet. "Have a drink, Jimmy. You're at loose ends."

"I am not," Jimmy said- the assessment was so far from true that he didn't even know how Thomas could have arrived at such a conclusion. "I'm quite well. Just damned _hot_. Isn't it too late in the season for it to be so warm?"

"It's the humidity," Thomas said, pausing by his vanity, to root around for something. Jimmy studied him as he turned- and then Thomas turned back, and Jimmy looked away, feeling as if he had been caught at something. Thomas came back with a clean ashtray, and Jimmy held up his cards, like a peace offering. "Care for a hand?" Jimmy asked- and Thomas sat down with an expression of discomfort- but it was caused by his injuries, and not the suggestion.

"I'll play twenty-one for a while," Thomas allowed, and they played a few hands without speaking.

"I think you cheat," Thomas said, after Jimmy had won many rounds in succession, and Jimmy laughed. "It's my lucky deck," he explained. "I can't lose."

"_Marked_ deck, more like," Thomas muttered, but he was smiling a little.

"I-" Jimmy began after a few moments more of quiet- "I know you're probably _upset_ that I read all of your personal things-"

"That doesn't begin to do justice to my feeling on the subject," Thomas put in, but Jimmy ignored his quip.

"-But I-" Jimmy went on, "-I just want you to know- I don't _judge _you for it- and I wouldn't ever have taken it so far if it hadn't been for Miss O'Brien-"

"I know you wouldn't have done," Thomas said, and the depth of conviction in his voice was sincere, and mystifying.

"I- thank you for that," Jimmy said, feeling bizarrely flattered- "But I wanted to ask you- I have for a long time, really- why you don't- why you don't just-"

Thomas sat right before him, unsettlingly solid and real- and yet also the author of those wistful, romantic things that Jimmy spent his every night reading- and it was so incongruous with the reality of him, for a moment, that Jimmy almost could not find the words. It had been easier, Jimmy thought, when he had been forced to pretend that he did not know a thing about the blue book. It had made the whole _situation_ seem less real.

"Why I don't just-" Thomas prompted.

"Why don't you just carry on a normal life?" Jimmy asked. "You could get married, couldn't you? Have children, even? I mean-" Jimmy stammered, at Thomas's expression, "-I mean _you_ can know you're one way, with all that Narcissus nonsense- but the _world_ would never have to know, would they?"

"Funny how when people discuss the love of _my_ sort it's always _nonsense_, or filth," Thomas said, and Jimmy braced himself for anger- but Thomas was smiling, and having another sip of whiskey. "As if there's no foolishness in anybody else's feelings over their relationship. And no impropriety, either."

"That's not what I-"

"But to answer your question," Thomas said, cutting him off with a look and a motion of his hand- "I suppose I'd rather have nothing at all than something I don't want."

Jimmy processed that, shuffling his cards. "You know, Mr. Barrow," Jimmy said, "I don't know that I've ever told you this- but I think you're very clever. Not just in the quick-witted way. In every way."

"Thank you," Thomas said, after a protracted moment, and Jimmy looked up to see that Thomas had his hands to his face. "I think I must rest," Thomas said, and Jimmy recalled his injuries and the fact that he had been awake even before Jimmy had- and that he'd had a bit of whiskey. "What time is it?" Jimmy asked, and Thomas found his pocketwatch. "Half-eleven," he told Jimmy, who blinked in confusion. _How on earth have I been in here for two hours?_ Jimmy wondered. They hadn't played cards for _that_ long-

"Yes, alright," Jimmy said, and rose to go. On impulse he reached out, and grabbed Thomas's right hand with his own, clasping it in an awkward handshake. For a moment their hands pressed together, Jimmy with his skin against Thomas's rather colder fingers, and Jimmy was struck motionless by the look on Thomas's face. "Good evening, Mr. Barrow," Jimmy said- and then felt that the whole gesture, everything about it- was ridiculous, and dropped Thomas's hand immediately.

"Good evening," Thomas said, his eyes dark- but his tone infused with mock formality- and Jimmy wondered, as he left, why exactly it _was_ that Thomas was no longer angry with him. _What is it?_ Jimmy tried to understand, but he could not- and though he pondered it all the up through dark hallways to get his book- and all the way _down_ through dark hallways after he'd retrieved the journal- he still found himself no closer to answers. So when he was in his bed Jimmy dropped the puzzle of Thomas's reactions from his thoughts, and opened the tome, and gave himself over to the puzzle of Thomas's _words,_ instead.

* * *

_Author's Note: please forgive the fact that I have used a Wallace Stevens phrase in the poem that Jimmy sings aloud- not only is it not correct to the timeline, but that line isn't mine. So...uh...just pretend that Thomas had one great flash of artistic brilliance among all his silly writing... yeah. Thanks guys!_


	5. Chapter 5

Jimmy woke up late, having fallen asleep without setting his alarm- well, not _late,_ exactly, but with very little time to spare. Jimmy rushed through his morning routine and burst into the hall- the blue book hidden inside his coat, tucked under his arm- and walked right into Thomas, who was moving down the corridor with the stiff gait of a person whose ribs had been broken. Thomas had a towel on his arm, and he looked Jimmy up and down- probably wondering, Jimmy thought, why he was wearing his evening jacket over his morning uniform. Jimmy kept his arm still, very aware of the book he held, and smoothed his expression into careful neutrality.

"Good morning, Mr. Barrow," he said, and Thomas ducked his head, and said: "Use the toilet if you want it. I'm having a bath."

The bathroom was typically shared- and more than once Jimmy had stumbled into it in the morning and borne witness to the unlovely sight of Alfred or one of the hall boys taking a piss- but nobody ever went near it when Thomas was bathing. _Because they all know about him,_ Jimmy thought. _They know what kind he is. That's why he warns everybody when he's having a wash-up._

Inwardly Jimmy found that... distressing, in a way. _Not that they have anything to worry about. It's me he loves. And I seriously doubt that seeing Alfred naked would induce _anyone_ to suddenly molest him._

"No- _yes_," Jimmy said. "I'll just be a moment." Thomas nodded, and Jimmy brushed past him, holding his arm stiffly so that his book would not fall, and shut himself in the washroom.

_I wonder,_ Jimmy thought- laying his book on the washbasin's edge and going about his routine- _why it is that some people are born that way and others aren't. _Because _obviously_ they were born that way. Thomas would never willingly have set himself apart so.

_It would have been better luck for you to have been born like me,_ Jimmy thought. He himself had never cared for love, or romance- and his one experience with intimacy had been a sad affair.

Involuntarily Jimmy recalled the penned words of the unknown soldier:

_'...On two-day leave the other boys bought me a woman- they say that I am always too serious- but when I went with her up to the room, I found her so lovely that I could not even bring myself to touch her-'_

"Hmm," Jimmy said to himself. His own single attempt at having a lover had been brought about by similar circumstances- the war, of course, being a great catalyst for _everything_- but it had terminated badly. Jimmy remembered the woman- and how he had asked her to keep her dress on. She had been a French girl- with a narrow little face and a small mouth, her features not unlike Anna's- but she'd had dark, close-cropped hair. _And lighter eyes_, Jimmy thought. _She was the most attractive, that's why I picked her. _

_Objectively-_ objectively she had been the most attractive. And she had spoken English perfectly- with an accent, but with eloquence- and she had been coy enough to pepper bits of her native language into her speech- a charming trick. But still it had not been enough to stir Jimmy's passions. He remembered kissing her little mouth, and her neck, and how she had whispered in his ear: _"Ah _oui_, monsieur, like that- _parfait_- yes- oui-" _

All very moving. But Jimmy had barely gotten hard against her thigh. Eventually he'd left her there, frustrated with himself, and after a few long nights pondering it- pondering it in the trenches, while gunfire sounded 'round him and he wondered how soon it would be before he was dead and his sexual habits ceased to be of any relevance- Jimmy had concluded that he was simply not interested. In any of it. Perhaps it was that very way that he felt _separate_- apart from other people- that kept him from wanting to be intimate.

Whether it was an issue of temperament or not, it was very convenient to not be preoccupied with all that- if you were going to have a life in service. _Just look at all the trouble lust has gotten Thomas into_, Jimmy thought. Thomas certainly thought about that sort of thing enough- if his actions and his poems had been any indication. Jimmy imagined that _Thomas_ had no difficulty producing arousal on command. _I'm sure he never failed to rise to the occasion, with some bloke. _With _many_ blokes, maybe- Jimmy had no way of knowing.

Still, Jimmy's own urges were infrequent- powerful while they lasted, but rare, and brief- and it was no great hardship to attend to the needs of his own body. _You should have been born like me- just not interested-_ Jimmy thought. _And then it wouldn't matter if you preferred the company of men, because there wouldn't be any impropriety about it._

Some people couldn't be so lucky. Though the unseasonable heat was playing havoc with Jimmy, a bit- on this morning and the morning before, he had woken with the most _intense_-

"Are you nearly through?" Thomas's voice came through the door, impatiently, and Jimmy realized that he had been standing over the faucet with the water running for an indeterminate- but lengthy- amount of time. Immediately he turned the water off, and tucked his book under his jacket.

"All right, all right," Jimmy said, and opened the door. For a moment he was chest-to-chest with Thomas, who stepped aside so that Jimmy could move past him. "You're not thinking of coming back to work so soon, are you?" Jimmy asked.

"I'm just thinking of a bath," Thomas said, putting an eyebrow up at Jimmy's question, and shut himself in the washroom.

Now it was too late for Jimmy to creep upstairs and hide his book, so he paced around his room, trying to figure a place that Thomas wouldn't look for it, if he chose to conduct another investigation.

_Not the mattress,_ Jimmy thought,_ and not in the bureau-_

Jimmy was going to be late- or at least not _early- _but still the temptation to open the book was overwhelming. _Just to re-read 'The Agnostic'_, _and maybe put the title to it,_ Jimmy thought- but instead he felt around for the wooden lip on the back of his vanity, and rested the book there, at an angle between the lip and the wall. Hopefully it wouldn't fall, and hopefully Thomas would not search his room again. _B__ecause I really can't bear to have my book taken from me,_ Jimmy thought, and left his room.

Thomas's door was slightly ajar- and Jimmy paused before walking by it, and peered through the crack. Thomas was not in evidence- still bathing, of course, nobody took two-minute-long baths- and so Jimmy, looking from side to side, and seeing no witnesses, pushed open the door and stepped in, closing it behind himself.

The light in Thomas's room was grey, and the whole room, devoid of his person, still _belonged_ to him, in some indisputable way. His bed was unmade- which was strange, Thomas was normally tidy to a fault- and the room smelled of him- certainly, and indefinably. On the chair- still pulled over to the bed- Thomas's silver lighter gleamed next to an ashtray. Thomas was never without his lighter- except, apparently, when he bathed- though Jimmy could imagine him taking it even into the bath, and lounging around in the water as it turned cold- smoking with the air of luxury Thomas always carried about with him- the way that made him seem as if he had a touch of nobility himself. _That's all an affect, though_, Jimmy mused. But maybe it was, and maybe it wasn't- maybe Thomas was as working class as he sounded, sometimes, and maybe also he holed up in his room and penned things as flowery as Keats and as soppy as any ladies' novel. _In fact definitely he does,_ Jimmy thought. He had been standing still in the center of the room- and now he stepped forward, and bent to pick up the lighter. For a moment it seemed almost warm to the touch- though honestly _everything_ was warm to the touch in this heat- and Jimmy admired it for a moment. Then he slipped the lighter into his uniform pocket, and turned and left the room.

Unfortunately Jimmy had grossly miscalculated. He did not see Thomas again until dinner- and after dinner, when everyone was still crowded around the table, Jimmy decided to have a bit of fun.

"Might I have a cigarette?" Jimmy asked Thomas- and Thomas, opposite him, looked surprised for a moment- and then his eyes narrowed, his expression full of suspicion. Still he produced a cigarette, handing it across to Jimmy, who took it, with a polite smile of thanks- and pulled out the silver lighter.

Thomas watched Jimmy bring the flame to the tip of the cigarette- and then said, with a careless air: "Oh, I'd forgotten you borrowed my lighter, James. Give it back, will you?" And he held out his right hand, across the table, expectantly.

Jimmy's first impulse was to snatch the lighter back, but everyone was all around them, and the exchange had been heard. Jimmy couldn't create a scene, hysterically insisting that Thomas had been mistaken and the lighter was _his_- and so, left with no other option, Jimmy scowled, and dropped it unceremoniously into Thomas's palm.

"Much obliged," Thomas said- and his mouth turned up at the corners, so smugly that Jimmy itched to slap him.

_That was stupid of you, of _course_ he was going to do that_, Jimmy thought, supremely annoyed with himself. That wasn't how it was supposed to have gone- in Jimmy's imaginings he had kept the lighter on his person for days, with Thomas helpless to prevent it, because of course Thomas couldn't _touch_ him- and so wouldn't be able to retrieve it.

"Are you taking up smoking, then?" Alfred asked, at his elbow, and Jimmy shrugged.

"I've been thinking about it," Jimmy said, taking a drag off his cigarette. Across from him, Thomas played with his lighter showily, lighting it, and then closing it, and then opening it once more.

The heat seemed only to get worse as the hour got later- which meant that the next day would be hotter _still_- and Jimmy felt as if the entirety of his awareness was focused on the awful itch of his collar against his neck. It rubbed and rubbed, constricting and far too _hot_, until Jimmy thought he would go mad from it. Other people, however, seemed to be having a worse time of it- heat billowed out from the kitchen in a sickening wave, and when Jimmy had stopped in to pick up trays for dinner, Ivy and Daisy had looked positively _awful_.

_Glad I don't have to stay in the kitchens all day,_ Jimmy thought. Someone had opened the door to the outside, probably in an effort to cool down the servant's hall- but the air was thick and still, and the same inside as out.

It was too warm even to play the piano. Jimmy sat on the bench, and trailed his hands lazily across the keys, but made no real effort to _do_ anything. _Play something that resembles sweltering, oppressive heat,_ Jimmy thought, but his brain had nothing in it except Thomas's words, and he could not even bring himself to set a tune for them.

Finally the last of the hangers-on took their weary selves up to bed, and Jimmy was left alone with Thomas, who did not immediately say anything to him- and so Jimmy rose from the piano bench, and sat down in the chair next to Thomas's. He watched for a moment as Thomas leafed through the paper.

"Anything interesting happen-" Jimmy began, but Thomas turned, suddenly, and stared at him. The look was uncharacteristic- _had_ been uncharacteristic for the past year- and so Jimmy was struck silent by the beat of intensive eye contact, before Thomas looked away again.

"Are we going to make this a habit?" Thomas asked, and produced his lighter. "Stealing things?"

"Are _we_- I'm not _stealing_ anything. I only _borrowed_, as you said," Jimmy replied.

"Well," Thomas retorted, "the lending period for my book is over. You have to _return_ it now."

"No," Jimmy said, calmly. He couldn't quite gauge Thomas's mood- but he was relieved, at least, to discover that Thomas hadn't found his temporary- and rather shoddy- hiding place for the journal.

Thomas gathered himself up, his posture indignant. "I said I _want_ it-"

"Oh, stop your harping," Jimmy snapped. "D'ya have so little, that a damned _journal_ means that much to you?"

His own words hung in the air, flat and more hostile-sounding than he had meant them to be.

"It was my true love's journal," Thomas countered, simply. He had put his lighter away again, and on the table he steepled his fingers together. "Why does it mean so much to _you_?"

"Your true_ love_-" Jimmy broke off. He was quite torn- part of him wanted to be fascinated by Thomas uttering a phrase like 'true love'- so strange to hear him say without sarcasm- and yet so like the author of the poems Jimmy had read that it was quite _striking_- and the other part of him was turning over the idea of the unknown soldier as Thomas's greatest love.

It was a repellent thought- sad and meaningless all at once- and Jimmy took a breath. "But he wasn't even _like_ you, how could he have been your _true_ love?"

"Love doesn't have to be pleasant. Think of Tristan and Isolde, or any of those famous stories." Thomas said, and ran one finger along the surface of the table, as if that somehow illustrated his point.

"But how can you-"

"This isn't really a conversation we should be having here," Thomas said tersely, cutting him off. Jimmy nodded. The idea had incensed him- the idea of Thomas pining over the mad soldier- and his heart was beating rather quickly in his chest, rendering him even more uncomfortably warm than before. "Upstairs, then," Jimmy said, rising to his feet. "Your room. I just have to change first. I'm suffocating."

Thomas had fixed him with an indecipherable look- but he rose as well, and nodded, walking past Jimmy. Jimmy followed him closely, watching as Thomas climbed the stairs with his clumsy invalid's stride. "I'll be right over," Jimmy whispered, at Thomas's door- and Thomas looked as though he were about to speak- but then he shut his mouth, and went into his own room.

Jimmy closed his bedroom door firmly behind him, and went to the vanity, to check that his journal was still secure- but it was fine, still balancing on the diagonal- and Jimmy felt relief sweep him, underpinned by- by _what_? By unhappiness- because of Thomas and the plight of the unknown soldier. _That's damned depressing, isn't it,_ Jimmy thought, and then shrugged out of his clothes. The humid air against his bare skin- damp as it was- was still a soothing balm compared to confines of his uniform, and Jimmy stood for a moment unclothed, savoring the respite from heavy cloth.

"Hmm," Jimmy said, his eyes on his reflection in the mirrors of his vanity. He looked at the angles of his own body. _I wonder how many times Thomas has imagined me like this,_ Jimmy thought. _And here I am, only ten paces away, but he can never have me-_

But the urgency of the conversation he wanted to have with Thomas was overpowering, and Jimmy halted his self-contemplation, and dressed in his pyjamas as quickly as he could manage. He hesitated over his dressing gown- he didn't want Thomas to see him underdressed- but also he was bloody _hot_- and so he simply folded the robe over one arm, and made to leave. At his door, Jimmy paused- and turned back. _I'll bring my cards, we can have a game- _ he thought- and lay his hands on the vanity, where his lucky deck of cards always sat- but his cards were not in evidence.

Jimmy blinked. _I thought I put them here._ "I _always_ put them here," he muttered- and as he turned to look away, something caught his eye- the edge of a folded square of paper, peeking out from underneath his hand mirror.

Jimmy lifted the mirror and grabbed the sheet of paper, unfolding it- and inhaled sharply, a strange sense of unreality coming over him as he registered the handwriting on the page- the handwriting from the second half of his book. _Thomas's_ handwriting.

Jimmy read the paper- it was four lines, and as he read them he _heard_ them in his head, as if Thomas were murmuring the words into his ear:

_He searched and searched and searched in vain,_  
_He looked and looked and looked again,_  
_He did his due diligence, sought rather hard,_  
_But still could lay hands on not one _single_ card-_

The paper fell from Jimmy's hand onto the floor, and he bent to retrieve it, with hands that shook. Jimmy's dressing gown slipped from his arms to the floor, but he ignored that, staring at the sheet in his hands. "You _bastard_," Jimmy said aloud, wonderingly, and laid the poem on the vanity- and then pushed through his door and into the hall- and strode right into Thomas's room, not bothering to knock.

"Excuse me," Thomas said- and Jimmy saw that Thomas wore no shirt- in fact he had been in the middle of changing into his nightclothes- but Jimmy didn't care- he walked right into Thomas's personal space, and shoved him, hard, his fingers making brief, hostile contact with the skin of Thomas's chest. "Those were my _father's_ cards," Jimmy said, through his teeth, feeling anger course through him, and Thomas three steps back at the force of the push. A pained expression crossed Thomas's face, and Jimmy remembered his cracked rib, and felt a stab of discomfiting guilt- which did not entirely dissipate his anger.

"Give them _back_," Jimmy hissed. Thomas had raised one hand to his ribcage with a wince- but he smiled, ever so slightly, at Jimmy's words, and shook his head _no_. "Give me my book," Thomas countered, and Jimmy realized that Thomas had forced a stalemate.

"That's fine," Jimmy said, tightly, after a few seconds of silence. "I can make do without them for a while."

"You'll have to," Thomas answered, the smile not leaving his face, and Jimmy stepped forward, overwhelmed by the urge to shove Thomas _again._ Jimmy brought his arms up- but Thomas grabbed his wrists with superior reflexes, and pushed his hands back. "Don't do that again, it _hurts_," Thomas said, the amusement on his face disappearing.

They stood for a moment like that- Thomas with his hands still clasped around Jimmy's wrists- and then Jimmy took a deep breath, and felt some of the anger bleed out of him. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you," Jimmy muttered, after a long moment, and Thomas dropped his wrists.

"It's my fault you're injured anyways," Jimmy said- and as he said it he realized how _true_ it was- if he hadn't fixed the rope-pull, none of it would've happened- but Thomas shook his head.

"It's my fault, actually," Thomas said, taking a step backwards- away from Jimmy- but keeping his eyes on Jimmy's face. With one hand Thomas found his pyjama shirt, and he pulled it on over his head, hiding the skin of his torso.

Jimmy swallowed- his muscles had all gone quite rigid, and his throat felt as though something were caught in it. "You mean because you rescued me. Because you chose to rescue me."

"I didn't have to intervene," Thomas answered. He had finished dressing, but remained standing, away from Jimmy. "It was of my own free will."

"Because you're in love with me," Jimmy said, quietly. He had never said it before- though the idea had lived with him constantly since the fair and the fight, only intensifying after he'd begun to read his journal. To him the words had _import_ and grave depths of meaning- but Thomas only nodded, his face turned away from Jimmy, as though he'd heard nothing particularly remarkable.

"Ah-" Thomas said, apparently unaware that great revelations were taking place- "you want a drink?"

A drink was unfathomable. Jimmy had to have his wits about him for these late-night encounters. "No," He answered, immediately, and went to sit- on the edge of the cot, because the chair had the ashtray still upon it. Thomas, whiskey bottle in hand, gave him an odd look- but then he cleared the ashtray off of the chair and sat there himself, facing Jimmy.

"Care for one?" Thomas asked, procuring a cigarette with his right hand and balancing the ashtray with his left. Jimmy watched Thomas juggle objects- the whiskey bottle placed on the floor, the cigarette pressed to his mouth- the silver lighter appearing in his hands- the lick of the flame- the lighter disappearing- and the whiskey being retrieved- and then he shook himself out of his contemplation, aware that Thomas had asked him a question.

"Yes," Jimmy said. "I'll have one." Thomas, at his words, lifted the cigarette from his own lips, and proffered it- and Jimmy, after a moment, took it from him- and then Thomas was getting himself another.

"I'm not allowed to touch the lighter anymore, is that it?" Jimmy asked, and put the cigarette to his mouth. He could feel where Thomas's lips had been, on the end of it.

"Exactly so," Thomas said. He rested the ashtray on his own knee, so that both he and Jimmy could reach it, and took a long drag from his new cigarette. Smoke spiraled away from Thomas's mouth on the exhale, traveling upwards through the humid air.

"So," Jimmy began, his eyes following the trail of smoke, "Mr. Barrow. You- you won't let anything happen to my cards, will you?"

"No, of course not," Thomas said, immediately, and with such utter sincerity that Jimmy felt reassured despite himself.

"That's fine," Jimmy said, studying Thomas's battered face. His myriad cuts and bruises were fading, slowly but certainly.

Thomas helped himself to a long drink from the neck of the whiskey bottle. It was strange to see him so- so very _uncivilized_ looking- Thomas, who was always the epitome of how a service man should look. He had it down perfectly, in every way- as crisp and polished as you could ask for. But now his hair was unkempt and he wore only pyjamas, which stuck to him in the heat- Jimmy could see a light sheen of perspiration, running in a band over Thomas's nose- and Jimmy felt an answering discomfort in the way his shirt clung to his own damp back. Thomas, disheveled and drinking from a whiskey bottle- looking every inch the rogue- was easier to picture as a poet _now_ than he ever was at work.

_You are such a secretive man,_ Jimmy thought. _As much a mystery as the secret book you keep. _

Thinking of the book made Jimmy think of the _soldier_, and he said aloud: "D'ya _honestly_ mean it when you say the soldier was your true love?"

"You think someone of my sort can't _love_?" Thomas countered, setting down the bottle, and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Not hardly," Jimmy said, holding up his hands in a warding-off gesture. "Certainly you can, else what would anybody ever get in trouble for? But the soldier-" Jimmy paused, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand, and tried to think of the proper way to phrase it. "The soldier," Jimmy said, after a moment, "He wasn't 'your sort', Thomas. I could see that plain as day from the journal. And even so, even if he were to somehow take up with you anyways- well, he was _mad_, wasn't he?"

It was only after he'd finished speaking that Jimmy realized his mistake he hadn't called Thomas 'Mr. Barrow'._ Well, we're off work, not like he can take offense now._

Thomas, however, seemed not to have noticed the slip- he looked at a spot on the wall behind Jimmy. _He's picturing the soldier_, Jimmy thought, and tried to catch Thomas's eye- but Thomas was far away.

"More _sad _than mad I think," Thomas said. "But I didn't even care, you know. I thought I could've loved him then- when I met him before he- before he left the hospital- but- but _afterwards_, when I read his book... I knew I had been right to care for him so." Thomas looked at Jimmy, who had been staring, transfixed, at his face, and now felt compelled to look away.

"Why?" Jimmy asked, looking over at the closed door. _His greatest love_, he thought, and the thought made Jimmy _sad_ for Thomas- so sharply sad that it seemed to be the strongest feeling he'd had in ages.

"Because he was so-"Thomas shrugged. "I can't describe it. You've read it, you should know."

Jimmy envisioned the dark-scrawled pages of the first half of the book- and the haunted drawings- and the unhappy words that leapt off of the pages, eager to stick in your throat or your skull- and could not understand what Thomas found so lovable about _any_ of it.

"Try to explain it, won't you?" Jimmy asked, resting his eyes on the ashtray, still balanced on the other man's knee.

"He was so-" Thomas's brow creased, and his eyes squinted in deep thought. "He was handsome, and he was eloquent, but it weren't that which made me love him." Thomas said, after a while. "It was- he was so _clean_. He was the cleanest man I've ever met. _Ah_- I mean- I don't mean literally. I mean his mind. Himself. He was _himself_ through and through- and like nobody else. And tormented, alright, and sad- but brilliant. He had a way of seeing things that- that I..." here Thomas trailed off, his head titled down towards the floor. "That I've never seen the like of," Thomas finished, just when Jimmy thought he would not go on. "Like a character in a _book_. Too much to be real."

Jimmy scowled at the description- so unlike how he thought of the soldier that it was almost laughable- and pressed on with his point. "But you loved him because you thought he was so _wonderful_-" here Jimmy could not keep the insincerity out of his tone, and he saw Thomas look up at him sharply- "-and yet you knew all the time that he could never love you in return?" Jimmy shook his head, at the vast foolishness of the idea.

"Well, he loved me enough that he killed himself when he thought we would be separated," Thomas snapped, suddenly angry-looking- but then the rigid anger went out of the line of his shoulders, and Jimmy watched him slump forward, sighing. "That's... not exactly true, actually," Thomas said, his tone wistful.

_Oh,_ Jimmy thought. _He is dead, then._ To Thomas he asked, making his tone as gentle as he could manage: "So- you said he was in the hospital. What was he in the hospital for, then? Madness?"

"He was injured in the war," Thomas replied, his tone clipped. "And it doesn't matter if he didn't love me _in return_- nobody ever has, whether they were _my sort_ or not. That shouldn't keep me from having feelings of my own."

"And you loved him for his mind," Jimmy said, turning over the situation in his head. Thomas looked unhappy- unhappy, with an edge of annoyance- and, as Jimmy watched, he took another drink from the whiskey bottle. "So what do you love _me_ for then?"

It was an inappropriate question- but one that Jimmy found he could not contain his curiosity over- the question that teased always at his thoughts- and apparently it shocked Thomas, because he almost spit his whiskey out, and put the bottle back on the floor abruptly.

"Well?" Jimmy pressed, a touch embarrassed at his own boldness. He could feel his cheeks burning merrily, and not just from the temperature.

"For somebody who keeps to himself- you're awfully interested in my private affairs," Thomas replied, his eyebrows going up.

"It's not private anymore," Jimmy said. "Not for a year at least. Not after you put your hands on me. Not after you came to my room- and not after you walked into my fight."

"And not after you stole my _book_," Thomas said, his tone suggesting it was a far more serious offense than any of his own.  
"And not after you _took my cards_," Jimmy answered, smartly.

"Fine," Thomas said. He looked _quite_ irritated now- and he raked one hand through his hair, and then turned his eyes on Jimmy. The full force of his stare was disarming, and Jimmy tried not to squirm under it. "I'll tell you. If you promise not to call the police."

"I promise," Jimmy said, leaning forward. "Now _tell_ me, for god's sake."

Thomas looked him up and down, with a discomfiting expression on his face, and Jimmy's stomach turned, a bit, within him. _Maybe this is a bad idea,_ he thought, vaguely- but Thomas had already begun to speak.

"I love your voice," Thomas said, his tone even. His eyes were still on Jimmy. Without looking he pulled out a new cigarette- and held it, unlit, in his scarred hand- the left- which was usually gloved- but in this heat, stripped bare. "And I love your face. And I love your body. Sometimes I love your wit. When you're witty."

Jimmy could not even remotely meet Thomas's eyes, and so he stared at the coverlet. "So no grand rhapsodizing about my clean and lovely brain, then?" Jimmy asked, after a moment. "All your terrible love is just a result of the fact that I had comely parents?"

"You want me to love you for your mind?" Thomas asked. The question came out incredulous, and Jimmy shrugged. "I don't know, it doesn't make a difference," he muttered. "It doesn't make a difference either way. Though I suppose it is a bit insulting."

"I do, though," Thomas said. Jimmy, glancing quickly up, saw that Thomas was staring at his unlit cigarette with burning intensity. Then Thomas shook his head, like a man coming out of a dream. "But I've answered all your questions- and y'haven't answered my _one_. Why do you _care_?"

"I don't know," Jimmy said, lowly- in his voice, the voice that Thomas so loved. "I just do." The moment was as uncomfortable as it could possibly be- the heat, the conversation, all combined to make Jimmy feel as if he wanted to crawl into a cold dark space and hide. Jimmy wiped a bead of sweat from his temple, and changed the subject, asking in a voice that sounded uneasy to his own ears- "So. Have you been writing poetry still, hmm? Besides that little jibe about my cards?"

Thomas let out a tight laugh. "Why _yes_, James, I have," he said, in his upstairs voice, and lit his cigarette. With his good hand he for a moment turned the lighter, and then he put it away again, safely behind him on the chair. "I find I rather like to do it," Thomas said, indistinctly, looking displeased with himself.

"Hmm. Tell me one," Jimmy commanded. Thomas snorted. "Come on," Jimmy cajoled. "You're in a giving mood tonight. I can tell. Give us one verse, that's all I ask."

"I think you must be my most ardent admirer," Thomas said, with a smile that did not make it all the way to his eyes.

"Most and _only_," Jimmy answered, drumming his fingers on the bed. "All the more reason to oblige me."

"Hmm. I feel ridiculous, y'know," Thomas said, and Jimmy nodded, finding it within himself to smile. "As you should. But go on, the audience is _starved _for new works."

Of all the myriad- and taboo- things that they had discussed, somehow it was _that_ which moved Thomas to blush, and Jimmy watched the blush intensify as Thomas took a breath- looking at Jimmy with irritation and chagrin, as if to say _I'm only doing this for _you_, you know_- and then he began, hesitantly, to speak.

"Ah-" Thomas said, and cleared his throat. "I really can't. It's very stupid."

"Just _tell_ me, or if not then give me the papers you've _written_ on," Jimmy said. "Please."

"Fine. He gave his love poison," Thomas said- and Jimmy blinked, realizing that the poem had begun without his knowing it. Thomas recited it with no emphasis, his tone flat and unaffected. "He gave his love fire. He gave his love ashes and ardor and ire. He gave love's caress while he thought for a while- and said things with venom, with terrible malice- and screamed at the flames as they burned down the palace-" Thomas broke off. "That's all you get. I can't remember more."

"No, no, wait," Jimmy said. "That's not how you say it. Say it again. Slower."

"He gave his love poison," Thomas said, slowly, looking at Jimmy as if he were an imbecile.  
"He gave his love _poison_," Jimmy repeated, when Thomas paused, and pulled himself closer to the edge of the bed.

"He gave his love fire," Thomas said, this time with measured rhythm.  
"He gave his love _fire_," Jimmy replied, watching Thomas's mouth move- the better to understand the words by.

"He gave his love ashes and ardor and ire-"  
"He gave his love _ashes_ and _ardor_ and _ire_-"

"He gave love's caress while he thought for a while-  
And said things with venom, with terrible malice-  
And _screamed_ at the flames as they burned down the palace-"  
Thomas stopped abruptly, closing his mouth. Jimmy had fallen silent halfway through, and now rocked backwards as he sat, pleased with himself at how he had coaxed Thomas into a correct recitation.

"That's very fine," Jimmy said, appraisingly. "Is it about me?"

"What?" Thomas asked- and then chuckled, tilting his head upwards, and shutting his eyes. "No. It's about Caligula."

"So 'his love' in the poem is a _horse_, right?" Jimmy asked, pleased when he saw that he had made Thomas smile.

"It was his sister, I thought," Thomas answered. "Maybe. And the horse his dearest friend. But actually I was thinking of Rome."

"His love was Rome," Jimmy echoed, and grinned. "Brilliant. You should take another look at that book, Mr. Barrow- if I ever do choose to return it. I think you'll find that the _true_ artist is the author of the second half."

"That's a matter of opinion," Thomas said, quietly. The quiet of the house around them seemed very deep, and perfectly still, and it made Jimmy lower his voice even further, so that he was whispering.

"You know I don't actually _care_ about people being- being like you-" Jimmy said, and made to reach across the space, intending to clasp Thomas's arm, in a show of sincerity- but somehow he overshot his goal, and placed his hand flush against Thomas's chest. Jimmy took a breath, surprised at his body's betrayal of his mind. Under his hand he could feel the warm fabric of Thomas's shirt- and under that, the flat center of Thomas's breastbone- a little space between two rises of muscle. And under that the beating of his heart.

"I just don't want anybody to think of _me_ that way," Jimmy said, staring at his own hand. "That's all. And... and O'Brien. She had me in her claws..."

He could feel the pressure of Thomas's gaze upon him, and Jimmy shut his eyes. In his own head Jimmy heard a strange and thunderous silence- an absence of his inner voice, the thoughts that narrated all his days- and he was quite _thrown_ by it. Still when he opened his eyes he did not move, waiting for a reply.

But Thomas didn't say anything. Instead, with slow movements, he stubbed out his cigarette- and lifted his left hand across the space, pressing it, palm down, to the center of Jimmy's chest- and Jimmy watched the gesture, as if it were happening to somebody else- until he felt Thomas's hand against him.

For the space of a few breaths they sat in silence. Thomas sat with his arm raised, his eyes quite fixed on Jimmy's face- and Jimmy, avoiding Thomas's look, saw how his free hand trembled, until Thomas had to grip his own knee to make it still. Against Jimmy's hand was Thomas's body, and against his chest- Thomas's wounded hand- making them into a circle, into an odd tableau- and Thomas's touch was so _overwarm_ from the heat that it made Jimmy's skin prickle.

"Mmm," Jimmy said, pressing his hand more firmly to Thomas, and making Thomas's eyes widen. "That is to say that I-"

_What exactly are you doing?_ Jimmy's awareness, uninvited, broke over his head, sounding rather like a very cross version of himself, and he dropped his hand. Immediately Thomas followed suit, and their arms collided as they moved, knocking the ashtray from Thomas's knee, and sending it tumbling to the ground.

"Shite," Jimmy said- his reactions were a bit slow, and he stared at the mess. "Sorry."

"S'fine," Thomas said- and got carefully up from the chair- though less carefully than he would've a week before- ribs, apparently, healed rather fast. "No, don't," Jimmy said, as Thomas made to bend over. "Don't. I'll sweep it. Just sit down."

"I'm _fine_," Thomas said, retrieving the ashtray, and straightening up again. Jimmy rose to his feet, as Thomas faced him- and as he rose he saw clearly- through the thin pyjamas that Thomas wore- that Thomas was at least half hard- and the sight of it made Jimmy almost painfully embarrassed. _Don't be so stupid,_ Jimmy told himself, and looked over at the far wall, behind Thomas. _It's nothing. It's not as if you didn't know he feels that way. _Now they were both standing, within striking distance of each other.

"I have to go to to sleep," Jimmy said, abruptly. He was far too aware of Thomas, less than an arm's length away- and the awareness made him feel ill-at-ease. The promise of sweeping would have to be broken.

"Alright," Thomas said. His face was drawn- and his eyes were very dark, as if, in the low light, his pupils were going to swallow his irises. The intensity of Thomas's gaze only added to Jimmy's discomfiture, and he took a step backwards, towards the door. "Alright, Mr. Barrow. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Jimmy," Thomas said- and then turned away, towards the bureau. Only then did Jimmy turn himself, and leave, for his own room.


	6. Chapter 6

Thomas, of course, had no compunction about lying when it was necessary- and more often than not, it _was_. This being an unfair world they lived in. Still he could not ever get used to the feeling of laying eyes on Jimmy- the _first_ moment, the very first moment of the morning, was always uncomfortable- and always because Thomas had to put aside his nightly fantasies and confront the reality of the man before him. Thomas always covered his embarrassment- rather neatly, he thought- but still the embarrassment was there. Or... the feeling of guilty conscience, as if he were the culprit of some unarticulated crime.

That morning it was worse. The previous evening had left Thomas of two minds about _everything_- and when he woke up the feeling had persisted, as if he were trapped in an unpleasant and simultaneously lovely dream.

When he walked in to the subdued servant's hall, Thomas tried not to look at Jimmy first- he _always_ tried, and was only successful sometimes- and today he was not successful. Thomas took in Jimmy's drawn features, and noted duly the reappearance of dark hollows under his eyes. _Trouble sleeping_, Thomas thought. _I can relate._

But Jimmy was nodding at him, and Jimmy was pulling out the chair next to his own, and Thomas sat next to him. "Good morning, Mr. Barrow," Jimmy said, in an undertone. He faced forward, so that Thomas saw him speaking only in profile. "I have something for you."

Thomas began to reply, but Jimmy cut him off. "-_Not_ your book, so don't try."

"And a good morning to you," Thomas said, at Jimmy's sharp tone- but then Jimmy turned his head, ever so slightly, and Thomas was surprised by the contrasting softness of his expression.

"Toast?" Jimmy asked, and Thomas half-reached for a plate before he realized that Jimmy held nothing in his hands. They looked at each other curiously, as conversation around them ebbed and flowed.

"Yes," Thomas said, looking at him.

"What'll we toast to?" Jimmy asked, his voice odd-sounding, and Thomas laughed. "To absent friends," he said, and Jimmy nodded, looking away from him. Their elbows bumped on the table, and Jimmy jerked his arm away, as if stung.

That was the _thing_ of it- part of Thomas was convinced that Jimmy wanted to be romanced. He _acted_ like it, a little- but then Thomas had been wrong about Jimmy already. Still Jimmy _seemed_ sometimes to want love- as if he had never been loved before- an idea that Thomas found absurd. There should be armies of people available at every moment to confess their adulation- Grecian choirs replete with masks and mercies, singing the articulate praises of Jimmy Kent's divinity.

And Thomas had never tried terribly hard to _seduce_ anyone before Jimmy had come along- his sexual experiences had all pivoted on one simple question- answered _yes_ or _no_- and then he would proceed accordingly.

Thomas half-thought that Jimmy was falling in love with him- and that thought half-colored all his days, making the heat blissful and dreamy and surreal and any number of ridiculous things- making the ache in his chest romantic, instead of the result of fractured bones- making the world have celebratory purpose.

But then there was the _other_ side to it- that sly old pragmatist in Thomas's thoughts, whispering to him that Jimmy was _troubled,_ that Jimmy was _mixed-up_- that Jimmy was, perhaps, a a crueler and more insidious flirt than Thomas had previously thought. That Jimmy wanted to ruin his career- but not just that- that he wanted to ruin Thomas's _heart_, too, in novel and frighteningly painful ways.

There were other variations of both sides of the coin- Jimmy was trying, in some clumsy way, to be kind- not fully understanding the message he sent- or Jimmy was vain and full of self-love and only enjoyed knowing that Thomas was caught in the grip of merciless unrequited passion- but all those variations came from two possibilities. _He loves me,_ Thomas thought,_ he loves me not._

Possibly there was a poem in that, but Thomas was loath to give Jimmy the satisfaction of writing any more about him so long as the Lieutenant's journal remained in his possession. Even if Jimmy didn't know. _Too cliche of an idea anyhow,_ Thomas decided. Next to him Jimmy drummed his fingers on the edge of the table, his hands drawing Thomas's eyes.

So the heat was blissful but it was also deadly, and they days were lovely and long but they were also full of teeth, and Jimmy was beginning to care for him- or Thomas was beginning an inexorable slide into misery.

"Today will be your half-day, James," Mrs. Hughes said. Jimmy's fingers did not still, but he did look up- Thomas could see just the edge of his bewildered expression.

"What d'ya mean?" Jimmy asked. "My half-day is Wednesday."

"And today as well," Mrs. Hughes replied, smiling. When Jimmy only looked at her blankly, she went on, a touch of incredulity coloring her tones: "I thought you'd be pleased- it was your idea, after all."

"_My_ idea?" Jimmy asked, and Thomas interrupted him.

"You were hoping for a break in precedent, as I recall," Thomas said. "That Lord Grantham would close his married-"

"Oh, right, of course," Jimmy said, a bit of color rising to his cheeks- he glanced over at Thomas, and then back to Mrs. Hughes.

"I really am," Jimmy said to her. "I can't tell you how delighted I am."

"Yes. Well. It will be good for everyone's spirits, I think," Mrs. Hughes said.

Thomas had spent the better part of two days arguing with Mrs. Hughes. He was planning on going back to work, if everything went as proposed, on the morrow- rather against doctor's orders. Carson was, of course, more than complicit in this plan- he seemed to think that each day that passed drove Lady Mary closer to some elaborate suicide. Mrs. Hughes had been angry at the idea of leaving Thomas, still injured, to manage Downton- and in her frustration at both of them she had gotten quite short, and said something to the effect of 'the well-being of one person not necessarily outweighing the well-being of another, even if the injured party happened to be a _downstairs_ person'. It had been more eloquent- and more _biting_- than that, though- biting enough that Thomas had been dismissed from the office so that Carson and Mrs. Hughes could fight it out amongst themselves.

Clearly Carson had won, because he and Thomas had covered some of the remaining aspects of his stand-in duties. Given the choice, Thomas would not have put off his new position another day for sore ribs, for bed rest- for _anything_. For anything except a _few _things. Mostly relating to the man who sat next to him with the sleep-starved eyes and the lately-nervous habits and the small smile gracing his mouth.

_What was that, last night?_ Thomas wondered. The way Jimmy had touched him- the way the pair of them had _sat_- it had been imbued with all the solemnity of a vow. If he asked Jimmy, Thomas thought he would be met only with vagueness and evasion- or else hostility. But Jimmy stopped him in the hall after breakfast with a touch to his arm, and Thomas gave Jimmy his full attention- because Thomas couldn't help himself.

"I hope you won't make plans for this afternoon," Jimmy said, the fingers of his left hand toying with his shirt-collar. Thomas watched the gesture, which was oddly erotic- it made his pulse jump. But many things Jimmy did had that effect on him.

"And what d'ya hope _that_ for?" Thomas countered- and Jimmy's eyes shot up to his, dark and unamused. _Touchy subject, then_, Thomas decided, keeping his mouth turned firmly down- the better for Jimmy to not take offense at his enjoyment.

"I'd like a walk, if you'd go," Jimmy said. He did not say it lightly- in fact there was almost a touch of _menace _to his tone- but Thomas nodded and smiled, as if it had been the most gracious of invitations.

"Fine, I'll see you then," Jimmy muttered, and pushed past Thomas without looking at him again.

So the day was full of angels, and Thomas drifted through tedious work in Carson's office as if the earth had uncoiled and he were tripping, lightly, through the air.

"You _have_ to remember to keep the books up to date, and no _corners cut_, Thomas, I _mean _it_,_" Carson was saying, and Thomas schooled his expression into attentiveness. Carson seemed harassed- he was half-packed and mostly out of sorts at the thought of leaving Downton. On his arm a black band of mourning caught dully the occasional light from the windowpanes. "Not because you're tired at the end of an evening and you think 'I can put this by one day without harm.' For _no_ reason."

"I swear the house'll still be standing when you return," Thomas replied, trying to be serious, though Carson had made the very same speech three times already. However his humor must have showed, because Carson glowered at him. "It pains me to say I take very small comfort in that."

_Well you really don't have any other options, do you,_ Thomas thought- but he did not say it aloud, lest Bates be dragged up to limpingly replace him for the duration.

When the day, replete with unbearable heat, wound towards the afternoon, Thomas stole away to the kitchens and commanded Ivy to provide him with luncheon. Thomas let it be implied that someone upstairs was taking a picnic, and he was obeyed unquestioningly. _Ah, the pleasures of being third-in-command,_Thomas thought. "Add on some bread, will you? A touch more. I don't know if it's one or two going," Thomas said, and Ivy nodded. "Yes, sir."

As she worked Thomas studied her, silently urging her to finish before Mrs. Patmore returned and he was caught out. Ivy was pretty, of course- yes, undeniably so- but he wondered if _Jimmy_ had truly felt some attraction to her- he _wondered_- but not overly- Ivy was as shallow as an ephemeral pool, and Jimmy's displays of interest in her just as occasional. _Maybe he loved himself so much it never left room for anybody else,_ Thomas thought- and that thought had the ring of truth to it. _But if you were going to _lie_, she'd seem quite the logical choice- suitable-attractive- dull about the edges. _Maybe that was ungracious- it wasn't as though Thomas had ever attempted to know her. _Don't need to,_ a sly part of his brain informed him. _Some people have no mystery about them._

Upstairs Thomas washed his face again, and packed his food into a satchel. He considered taking Jimmy's cards and unveiling them at some inappropriate moment- but he wanted to keep them a while- for _collateral_, as it were- and also he did not want to provoke a fight. _Not when things are going so well,_ Thomas thought. If 'well' was the correct adjective. Jimmy's cards were hidden in his top drawer- an obvious spot, except that Thomas had tossed out his own deck of cards and put _Jimmy's_ lucky deck into the box instead- and he knew that if Jimmy _did_ get an opportunity to search his room- and Jimmy seemed to have plenty of time come into his room, lately- he would sift through the detritus of Thomas's top drawer, ignoring the wrongly-boxed cards so obviously in front of him.

In Thomas's mind poetry suggested itself to him, unbidden, as he dressed in his lightest jacket: _The day was replete with unbearable heat, and the night was quite full of the same..._

"And if I was _lost_ to the charm of your _thoughts_ I have only my damned self to blame," Thomas said, in his mirror- emphasizing the words in the same funny way that Jimmy had- and then he smiled at his own foolishness. _You're a stupid man,_ Thomas thought, though the grin on his face hardly wavered. _A stupid man._ Though Jimmy did have such an effect on him- Thomas didn't _normally_ go around making up rhymes on the spot, like some mooning schoolboy-

"Mr. Barrow?" Jimmy's voice came through the door, and Thomas started in surprise, as if his thoughts had somehow conjured the other man up. "Give me a moment," Thomas said, and pulled a bottle of wine- _purchased_, not stolen- out of his closet, where he had done his best to keep it away from the heat and light. One half-day when Thomas had been drifting through shops in Ripon he'd found himself taken with the label of the bottle- a painting of Justice, replete with her sword and scales. But Thomas had been struck mostly by the way the artist had rendered her- with a wry half-smile curving under her blindfolded eyes, instead of the typical solemn look- and so on impulse he had purchased the bottle of sparkling burgundy, at a price which suggested to him that it had not _really _come from France.

The bottle he wrapped up in a shirt and tucked also into the bag, and slung the whole thing over his arm, though it pained him a bit to do so, and he had to adjust the strap, wincing with discomfort. _If it's _romance _he wants-_ Thomas thought- making sure to pretend even to himself that he was not rather afraid- and then he opened the door, to Jimmy, who stood just outside of it.

"Good afternoon," Jimmy said, his eyes downcast, and Thomas nodded, edging forward, so that Jimmy turned and allowed him through the doorway.

"Shall we, then?" Thomas asked, and strode down the hall without looking back, though he could sense Jimmy's presence at his back.

They trudged across the lawns together in the heat. Jimmy had already shed his jacket in deference to the sun, and Thomas, though he resisted, was soon made to follow suit. Jimmy had not said a word, only he walked just abreast of Thomas, staring at the earth below them as if in some reverie.

"What did you want to talk about, then?" Thomas asked, feeling repetitious. _The question of the week._

Jimmy looked up at him. "I didn't say I wanted to talk," he returned, swiping a hand along his own forehead, "I said I wanted to _walk_."

"Hmm," Thomas said, adjusting the strap of the bag, and Jimmy stopped short. "Let me carry that, Thomas, for God's sake," Jimmy said. "Mr. Barrow, I mean."

"It's quite alright," Thomas said- but Jimmy was lifting it off of his shoulder, and Thomas held very still. "Ach, it's _heavy_," Jimmy said, making a face- it wasn't heavy, so the statement was possibly for Thomas's benefit. "What do you have in here, anyhow?"

"Stolen goods," Thomas replied, and Jimmy cracked a weak smile. "You're in the poorest of humors today," Thomas said, and Jimmy shrugged. "Not the _very_ poorest," Jimmy returned amusement creeping into overall discontent that showed on his face. "I was just thinking about music."

"That's sort of general," Thomas said, and Jimmy shook his head _no_. "Do you know the story about the_-_ er, 'The Rite of Spring'? It's that famous Stravinsky orchestral thing with a ballet to go with it-"

"Yes, I've heard it," Thomas said, nodding, though he wasn't quite sure what Jimmy was getting at- this weather hardly harkened to Spring at all.

"I was just thinking of the story about the first time it ever was performed," Jimmy said. They passed into the treeline, Thomas leading them gradually in the direction he wanted to go, further away from the house.

"Mm, something happened," Thomas agreed. "It was panned, right? Or... a riot broke out- I think I read it in the paper."

"Well the story goes that the audience was hissing from the first note," Jimmy said, moving a branch out his way. "They screamed '_Ta gueule! Ta gueule!'_ until Nijinksy was beside himself, and Stravinsky hid backstage and wept with rage. And by the time the dancers came on for the _Augurs_ the crowd was... was _throwing_ things at the stage- and then amongst themselves they began to fight- and the police had to come at the intermission-" Jimmy repeated the story with an odd hesitance- and a curiously _rehearsed _quality- as if he had thought the words to himself a thousand times, but never before uttered them aloud- and Thomas stopped walking to watch him, transfixed.

"But then," Jimmy said, standing still as well, and facing Thomas, "they also say that it was nothing, really, and that any dissent was incited by the director, for publicity." Jimmy took a breath, his mouth drawing for a second across his face in a line- and then the troubled expression left him, and he began to speak once more.

"So," Jimmy said, quietly. "It's either that the people who heard it were so maddened by it- because it was _supposed _to be maddening, you know- that they went a bit mad themselves, taken by the music... or else it's nothing, meaningless. A stunt."

Jimmy stopped talking- he pulled out his handkerchief as if he had been roused from slumber, and mopped his brow. "This heat gets me," Jimmy said, to Thomas, and Thomas watched as Jimmy, for a brief moment, closed his eyes.

"And what do you think it was?" Thomas asked, curiously- obviously the story had some significance for Jimmy- but Jimmy shook his head, and began walking again. "A stunt, probably," Jimmy said, lowly. "Where are we going?"

"A place I know," Thomas said, assessing Jimmy's profile, but Jimmy only pressed his lips together and nodded. Thomas resisted the urge to point out that it had been Jimmy who had requested this particular outing, and who now seemed at loose ends about it. His chest felt curiously compressed by Jimmy's words, and he wished that he could be more certain of the other man- certain enough, at least, to clasp a hand to his shoulder.

_Just do it, then,_ Thomas thought, and reached out- but then drew his hesitating arm back at the last instant, before Jimmy saw the gesture. "This way," Thomas said, walking off, and Jimmy followed him. "I heard you're going back to work," Jimmy said. "Early."

"I can't wait," Thomas said, dryly, leading Jimmy through the trees and into a sunlit pasture, where the light was direct and the air thick and overwhelming. Thomas looked over at Jimmy as they cut directly across the center of the space. "Not wearing an armband?" Thomas asked, and Jimmy made an indeterminate sound.

"At work I do," Jimmy said. "I'm not obligated to mourn him on my own time, am I?"

"You really don't care at all?" Thomas asked, curiously. "Mind the sheep."

"Oh, thanks for telling me, I didn't _see_ 'em all," Jimmy said- and smiled, much to Thomas's relief- looking the most normal he had all day.

"You said you had something for me," Thomas reminded him, and they passed into another wooded area. The leaves of the trees obscured the sun, and Thomas, glancing to the side, could see how light and shadow played over Jimmy's face. Jimmy had rolled his shirtsleeves up, and undone his tie around his neck, and Thomas forced himself not to stare.

"Hmm. Yes," Jimmy said, but made no further comment. At last they approached the spot Thomas had been aiming for: a crumbling foundation, older than the house, that sat in a pretty copse of trees, far away from everything, and guarded by a ruined wall of stone. The interior of it was mostly moss and a bit of rock, and Jimmy walked immediately into it, throwing down his tan coat on the ground, and sat, with a sigh, holding the satchel atop his lap, as if he had known it was the place Thomas had intended for them all along. Thomas considered the ground, and then draped his coat over one of the stone walls, and came to sit by Jimmy, lowering himself down with care. Jimmy eyed him critically while he did it. "You're not hardly well enough to work all day," Jimmy said, appraisingly. Jimmy's voice held no concern, but Thomas sensed that concern was the intent behind it.

"I'll be fine," Thomas said, and smirked. "The thrill of my position will carry me through."

"No doubt," Jimmy said- he was opening the bag, and he pulled out the wine first, unwrapping it from the shirt. "Oh, good, food and wine," Jimmy said, his voice sounding a bit strained- but he looked up, his expression calm, and Thomas swallowed his own unease and took the wine from Jimmy's hands. "I thought we could have lunch," he offered, and Jimmy said, immediately- "Yes. That was my idea all along, of course, I just... forgot to bring anything. I mean I couldn't-"

He broke off as he emptied the contents of the bag, looking at Thomas curiously. "Quite the spread," Jimmy said. "How'd you get the _oranges_? The _special _hard-to-get _late_-season arm-and-a-leg oranges that Mrs. Patmore said she'd _kill_ us if we took-"

"Well I have my ways, you know," Thomas said, and caught an orange neatly when Jimmy tossed it to him.

"Yes, I'm sure," Jimmy said, easily. He seemed much cheered by the food and the wine, and Thomas felt some of the tension ease out of his own body- he leaned back, making himself more comfortable, and took a few slices of bread for himself. "Hmm," Jimmy said, raising an eyebrow. "No glasses, though. What of _standards_? We'll have to drink from the bottle!"

"Your Carson impersonation is terrible," Thomas said, chuckling, and Jimmy gave him a stern look, gesturing for silence with a swipe of his hand. "_Really_, Thomas, _late for breakfast_ again," Jimmy said, glowering, and they both dissolved into laughter. Jimmy laughed more and longer than was perhaps necessary, putting his face in his hands- until Thomas, feeling fissures of alarm, touched him, very carefully, on one arm. Jimmy shot up immediately, as if he hadn't been drowning in mirth, and grabbed the bottle of wine from Thomas. "You even put a _bottle-opener_ in here," Jimmy said, appreciatively. "Very well thought out, Mr. Barrow."

"T'was nothin'," Thomas said, rather pleased with himself, and Jimmy uncorked the wine and offered Thomas the first sip. "Mmm, that's not very good," Thomas said, after he had tilted a good quantity into his mouth.

"Seems alright to me," Jimmy said, after sampling it. He took another drink- a long one- and sighed. Thomas saw the dark tint of red on Jimmy's lips left by the wine, and had to look away, lest his expression betray him. _He wouldn't take whiskey from me before but he'll drink the wine now,_ Thomas mused. _I wonder why._

Bugs buzzed around them, and a patch of sunlight struck Jimmy's hair, making it shine. Jimmy was wiping his hands on the moss with care, and Thomas watched him idly for a moment, and then helped himself to a slice of cheese, and ate it in conjunction with his bread.

"I forgot," Jimmy said, lifting his hands up for an examination, and then reaching into his discarded jacket, "I have something for you."

"Oh?" Thomas asked, and Jimmy produced a few neatly folded squares of paper, and unfolded the first one- he stretched his arm out straight, handing the paper to Thomas with a curious expression on his face, and Thomas scanned the writing on the sheet.

'The Agnostic', it read- and under that, copied into neat verses:

Oh arrogant, again I say _alas_,  
I hold the cup of wine disguised as water  
You touch me softly, poison my carafe  
And lead me- like a blind man- to the slaughter

And I am empty yellow hands and fists  
And maudlin thoughts that occupy this space  
And amaranth, and slashing arms and wrists  
The death that hovers 'round your round embrace

You poison me, I fight, I die instead  
You breathe upon my glass, I wake, I rise  
You take my icy hand- for I was _dead_-  
You underline my dreams, open my eyes

Oh arrogant- again I say _alas_,  
My palms clutch at cathedrals, scratch at saints  
You blindfold me, I drink, I go to Mass-  
I drink the wine, you poison me,  
I repeat these complaints-

Thomas read it again- it was _his_ writing, rewritten carefully in Jimmy's hand. "You copied it over," Thomas said, after a long moment, and looked at Jimmy, who sat passively, watching him.

"And you _titled _it?" Thomas asked, when Jimmy gave no answer- and Jimmy shrugged. "It wasn't meant to make you angry."

"I'm not angry," Thomas said, and made to hand the sheet back to Jimmy. "That one is terrible, though," he said- but Jimmy refused the paper. "It was a _gift_," Jimmy said, looking rather put-out, and Thomas suddenly deduced the reason for the tiredness on Jimmy's face, and fell silent, struck by what Jimmy had done- that was, stayed up until the small hours, copying his amateurish rhymes out of the Lieutenant's book. Thomas felt absurdly _touched_- and worried, too. "I hope this doesn't mean I'm never getting my book back," he said to Jimmy, tucking the paper away in the bag.

"It doesn't," Jimmy replied. "I can't go forever without my cards," he added, looking at Thomas sourly, and Thomas smirked in response. "I see you have more tools for my humiliation," he said, nodding at the remaining paper, which was still between Jimmy's fingers.

"Hmm?" Jimmy asked- and then looked down at his own hand. "Oh, yes. Read us this one, won't you? It's one of my favorites. Read it and I'll tell you what I think it's _about_."

Thomas raised an eyebrow at the paper Jimmy offered him, and stopped the other man with a motion of his hand. "I need a cigarette for this," Thomas said, and began to get to his feet- but Jimmy bounded up with the speed of the uninjured, and was handing Thomas his jacket before Thomas had quite managed to rise to his feet. "Thank you-" Thomas said, and then Jimmy put his arms around Thomas's shoulders, and helped him to sit back down. Thomas didn't _need _help, really- but Jimmy's touch caught him so off-guard that he acquiesed to it, for a moment imagining what it would be like if they were in an embrace.

Jimmy sat down as well, studying Thomas's face. "You blindfold me, I drink, _I go to Mass-_" Jimmy said, significantly. "So you're a Catholic, then? You've kept it rather quiet."

"I'm not anything," Thomas answered, after a beat. "But my mother seemed to think she was."

"I knew it," Jimmy said, sounding pleased, and handed Thomas the other paper. Thomas let it rest on his knee, and lit a cigarette before unfolding it. He squinted at the words, unfamiliar to him in Jimmy's hand:

Now, three circles fall through the air  
_your_ ornaments hold infinite powers  
being as they are- close to a face and mind so fair-  
entranced, as if before the laughing bowers

Of the tenement house where they  
have built their ragged throne  
between the small, the artful shades- of _blue_  
betwixt cerulean thoughts that fall as bone  
And shatter, 'till they've _cut_ you so  
The subtlety of glass under a light  
That secret wound you carry, little holes where holes don't go  
rent thrice, refracting, ostentatious, bright

This care for cold and paler things in life,  
These ornaments, beyond some wearing strife-  
May seem a pettish thing that I lament, and so, I rest-  
But lay their prettier weight  
upon this disquieted chest.

"Hmm," Thomas said, looking it over with displeasure. "I'm not reading that aloud," Thomas declared finally, refolding the paper, the better to distance himself from it. Jimmy was watching him still, and asked, neutrally, "D'ya want to know my guess?"

"Have at it," Thomas said, taking a long drag of his cigarette.

"It's _jewelry_, isn't it?" Jimmy asked, but when Thomas started to answer, Jimmy held up a finger. "Wait, I have more. It's not _real _jewelry- it's Vauxhall glass. Blue, of course. And it's a pair of earrings, I think, because you say _they_- and 'little holes where holes don't go'- that's for pierced _ears_, isn't it? I had a time with that, I admit, but I've got you all sorted, now," Jimmy added, as if delivering a summation. Thomas noticed that Jimmy had said _you_ instead of _it_, as if the poem were an extension of Thomas himself. Jimmy had become quite emphatic in his speech, and leaned towards Thomas, gesturing with his hands.

"And furthermore," Jimmy added, looking up into Thomas's face, "I think the earrings belonged to someone you loved. I've spent a lot of time thinking about this. Am I right?"

"Mmm. Yes." Thomas said, and Jimmy took the cigarette right from his hands, making Thomas almost flinch away in surprise, and inhaled deeply upon it, shutting his eyes for a moment.

"I knew it," Jimmy said, opening his eyes again. Thomas picked up an orange and began to peel it, looking at the task before him so that he would not have to look at the other man.

"Tell me about it, won't you?" Jimmy asked, in a softer tone, and Thomas pressed his lips together, thinking.

"Tell me why you care so much about that performance of _The Rite of Spring_, and I'll tell you," Thomas said, finally. The orange looked perfect as it emerged from the rind- Thomas had feared it would be overripe.

"But I don't... _care_ about it," Jimmy said, sounding puzzled. "I really don't. I just can't tell if it was meaningful... or- or meaning_less_."

"Meaning less than _what_?" Thomas asked, glancing over again- and he saw that he had won a smile from Jimmy. "Alright, _tell_ me," Jimmy said, throwing the cigarette over his shoulder without looking at it. Thomas glanced behind Jimmy- to make sure he did not light the woods afire- and then sighed, finally meeting Jimmy's unwavering stare.

"You really want to know-" Thomas said, but Jimmy cut him off. "Stop waffling and just _tell_ me-"

"Fine," Thomas said, sweeping orange peels off of his lap. "When I was a child my _mother_ had a pair of blue glass earrings- they were cheap but she'd wear them out because they were her favorites. And mine as well. Big gaudy things." Thomas cast a sharp look at Jimmy, to see if he was amused- but Jimmy was paying _rapt_ attention to him, his wine-stained lips parted, as if he had been caught in the middle of something, his elbows resting on his knees.

"And," Thomas said, rolling his eyes, "I used to pretend to be a gallant buccaneer- and the earrings my treasure- I'd hide them behind the mantle-clock and fight off the thieving hordes- my _father, _that was. He was good at playing the villain. My mother too, though sometimes she was a siren and helped me to lure my father to his death."

Jimmy laughed then- but not derisively- and lifted the glass bottle to his mouth again. When he set it down he smiled at Thomas. "I can't believe," Jimmy said, "that you wrote something so lovely about _earrings. _But then... I suppose- it wasn't about earrings after all, was it? It was about-"

"Must we do this every time?" Thomas asked, his tone a bit affronted, and picked up a section of orange. Suddenly Jimmy was looking at Thomas with a too-intense expression. The air was thick and very still, save for the sounds of insects, and Thomas wanted to look away, to break the moment- but he found that he could not, so long as Jimmy stared at him that way. _You're beautiful_, Thomas thought, hoping the sentiment did not show on his face. _You really are._

Jimmy's visage was filled with strange emotion- and suddenly he lifted his hand to Thomas's- Thomas could _feel_ the slight tremor that ran through Jimmy's arm- and Jimmy grasped his wrist, and brought Thomas's hand to his own mouth, so that Thomas felt the tips of his fingers brush against Jimmy's lips. "Ah," Thomas said, and dropped the orange segment- it fell onto Jimmy's leg, and Jimmy looked at it, not releasing Thomas's hand.

"Sorry," Thomas said, because he could not think of anything else to say- and Jimmy released his grip on Thomas's wrist, and picked up the piece of orange. "S'fine," Jimmy said, examining it, and then stuffing it unceremoniously in his mouth. "No harm done," Jimmy elaborated, swallowing, and he cracked a grin at Thomas- but his hands made uneasy movements on the mossy ground in front of him, drumming out a repetitive beat.

_I can't do this if I don't know what you want, _Thomas thought. He felt like a tightrope walker on a very high rope, not knowing which step would be his last- and full of the certainty that if he turned the wrong way, there would be awful consequences.

Jimmy looked at his hands on the ground- ducking his head, so that Thomas saw only the flash of his hair and a bit of exposed skin on the back of his neck- and then he leaned forward, his face invisible, and pulled the remainder of the orange from Thomas's hand. "You have your own," Thomas said, as Jimmy straightened up. "Mm, but yours is sweeter," Jimmy said, and ate a second piece- and then he pulled another section off- and looked at it- and then looked into Thomas's eyes. Jimmy lifted his hand, holding the segment in the air between them. Thomas stared at Jimmy's indecipherable, clouded expression, and made the conscious choice to do a foolish thing.

"May I?" Thomas asked, not taking his eyes off of Jimmy- who nodded, once- and Thomas grasped Jimmy's wrist the way Jimmy had done to him- and pulled Jimmy's shaking hand up to his mouth. Still he kept watch on Jimmy's face- and Jimmy took a sharp breath- but his attention remained firmly fixed on his own hand. Thomas pressed his mouth against Jimmy's fingertips- he could feel his own heart hammering painfully against his ribcage- and, with the most careful of motions, he drew the slice of orange between his lips, letting his mouth push, for an instant, against Jimmy's fingers. Then he sat back, unclasping Jimmy's hand, and looked at him carefully, to see if there was going to be a fight.

A flush had risen to Jimmy's cheeks, and he blinked rapidly, and tugged at the collar of his shirt, though it was unbuttoned enough that it should not have been constricting. _I've never seen him look like that_, Thomas thought, and swallowed the orange- the taste of it mingling with the wine that lingered on his palate. "It's good, isn't it," Jimmy said, lowly, and Thomas felt prickles of heat move through his body at the tone in Jimmy's voice.

Jimmy pulled another section off of the orange- by now it was somewhat diminished- and Thomas felt his breath catch in his throat when Jimmy held it out to him, repeating his gesture. Far away a bird was calling raucously, over and over again, but Thomas barely registered it- he heard no sound except for the blood pounding in his ears as Jimmy offered him the fruit.

Thomas put both of his unsteady hands around Jimmy's wrist, and bent his head to Jimmy's hand, considering his fingers- they shook, and the edge of one neat nail had a bead of juice on it. Thomas examined Jimmy's hand in the varied light, then cast a glance up at Jimmy- who was still staring at him, his brows knitted together- and Thomas dipped his head, and ran his lips across Jimmy's index finger and the tip of his thumb.

"_Hh_-" Jimmy made a small sound, and Thomas glanced up at his face, which bore a concentrated expression- before taking the orange, gently, with his teeth. "Yes," Thomas said, thickly, "-it's very good." He could barely taste the flavor of the orange at all, anymore- the taste of Jimmy's skin overpowered citrus and cigarettes, making him feel lightheaded with sharp desire. Thomas was _frightened_, too- scared of how bad it could all go in a minute- but the _want_ to touch Jimmy was more powerful than his fear of the consequences. Jimmy sat before him, his posture oddly rigid and his eyes too hard- but his mouth was soft, and full, and pulled slackly down by some emotion. Thomas wanted to kiss him- but he restrained himself, not moving any closer, as Jimmy took a series of long, uneven breaths. "Let's do another, if we're in agreement," Jimmy said, his voice hoarse, and as he said it his blush darkened even further- Thomas could see it, lingering under his gold-toned skin and spreading, like a rash, down his throat and onto his chest.

This time Jimmy had to make three attempts to pull the segment from the body of the orange, and Thomas saw that his hands were making jumpy movements, as if Jimmy were not the master of his own body. Finally Jimmy got a section, and lifted his hand flush against Thomas's mouth. They were facing each other, and the eye contact between them felt profoundly physical to Thomas, as if Jimmy could _touch_ him with looks alone. _I love you,_ Thomas thought, and as he thought it, Jimmy gritted his teeth, and Thomas, holding Jimmy's wrist steady, ran the edge of his tongue against the inside of Jimmy's thumb.

"_Oh-_" Jimmy said, aloud, his mouth twisting- and he looked at Thomas, in wide-eyed surprise, as if someone else had spoken.

"Hmm," Thomas said, his heart going quicker than he thought it rightly could. He tilted Jimmy's palm towards his face, and lightly rubbed his lips against the underside of Jimmy's forefinger, and Jimmy let out a shuddering breath.

"Jimmy-" Thomas said, feeling overwhelming arousal constrict his own body. He was hard- _very_ hard- and Jimmy's fingers pushed against the cut on his lip, but Thomas felt no pain. The taste of Jimmy's skin was more delicious than the orange, and Thomas moved his tongue slowly up the line of Jimmy's finger, to the top- before he took the section from Jimmy's fingers, with his lips- and then leaned back slightly, looking at the man before him. Jimmy seemed at loose ends- he shifted his body back and forth, and nodded his head, though Thomas had not asked him any question. "Sure- alright," Jimmy said, in a broken undertone, and fumbled for the orange, stopping to push his hair out of his eyes. Thomas nodded, wiping the back of his hand with his mouth- and for some reason the gesture made Jimmy take a hitching breath. "Here, Thomas," Jimmy said, his light manner contrasting absurdly with the tremor in his voice. "Have another-"

Jimmy sat with his knees apart, and Thomas could see that _Jimmy _had an erection- Jimmy, who Thomas had never been able to imagine undone by love- though he had _tried _to imagine it, over and over. The sight of it made Thomas ache- and he had a sudden image flash through his brain- of bending down, and lowering his head, to kiss Jimmy between his legs, and press his mouth along the fabric-constrained evidence of Jimmy's hardness-

_God,_ Thomas thought, lost for words- and Jimmy brought another piece of the orange to his lips, but Thomas took the section with his right hand, and tossed it to the ground. "That's enough," Thomas said, as evenly as he could- and Jimmy's eyes widened, and he made to reply- but he stopped short, as Thomas grabbed his wrist tightly, dragging it upwards, to meet his lips. "_Aa_h-" Jimmy hissed, as if surprised and Thomas kissed his wrist- feeling under the skin the wild beating of Jimmy's heart- and moved his lips up Jimmy's palm, mapping the skin by feel alone.

"You taste good," Thomas muttered, into Jimmy's hand, his mind straying to other places on Jimmy that he wanted to taste, and he kissed Jimmy's skin more ardently.

"_Oh,_ yes, I- well- I appreciate that-" Jimmy said- Thomas looked at him, and saw that Jimmy's free hand was clutched tightly against his own thigh- so tightly that it looked painful, as if he were digging his fingertips into his skin. "It's alright, Jimmy," Thomas said- lifting his mouth, for a moment- and on some impulse with his unoccupied hand he clutched Jimmy's shoulder, squeezing it- and he felt Jimmy subtly lean into the embrace for an instant, before sitting upright again.

"I know it is," Jimmy said, fixing Thomas with a blank look- though his shaking hand and his aroused body betrayed his true feelings.

Thomas nodded, and laid his lips gently against Jimmy's hand once more- the top of his hand, this time- he put his mouth to Jimmy's knuckles with the utmost care, and the heat of the afternoon pressed around him, making him feel as if he were in a dream. _This is the most erotic thing I've ever done_, Thomas thought, and almost laughed aloud- because it was ridiculous- it was _nothing_- and yet it was so _much_. So much that he couldn't control the staccato thrumming of his heart or the ache of his hardon or the way Jimmy's skin felt. He moved down Jimmy's fingers, with his mouth and the tip of his tongue, slowly.

"I- _ah_-" Jimmy muttered, and broke off, his voice descending to indecipherable depths, before he spoke again. "_Hn._ Thomas, I- _ahh_-"

Thomas groaned at the sounds Jimmy was making. _Keep your composure,_ he told himself, _you can manage-_ but he _couldn't_- and when his lips reached the end of Jimmy's hand he pushed his head down, taking two of Jimmy's fingers into his mouth completely, and sucking on them, _tasting_ him- and Jimmy _moaned_, pushing his hand against Thomas's mouth as if he would die from it.

"Oh, _g-god_-" Jimmy said- and then his closed eyes flew open, and he wrenched his hand from Thomas's lips, and crawled backwards, away from him.

"Jimmy-" Thomas said, and made to move towards him- but Jimmy rose to his feet, dusting off his trousers agitatedly. Jimmy was so hard that it looked uncomfortable, and Thomas climbed to his feet, too, with a grace he did not think he could manage while injured, and took a careful step towards Jimmy, meaning to comfort him, to tell him it was alright to feel this way-

"I have to go," Jimmy said, the color draining from his face- and he stepped back from Thomas- so quickly that he almost fell over a stony outcropping of the old building in his haste.

"Don't," Thomas said, imploringly, and took another step forward- but Jimmy only retreated further, tucking his coat under his arm and refusing to meet Thomas's eyes. "Stay here," Thomas tried, again, as soothingly as he could manage- but Jimmy shook his head _no_, his mouth set tightly, and turned away from Thomas. "And don't follow me, either," Jimmy said, over his shoulder, his tone sharp. Thomas stood, watching Jimmy retreat until Jimmy had passed out of the copse of trees- and raked his hands angrily through his hair.

"That went well," Thomas muttered, aloud, and was answered only by a distant bird, crying out from some field. After a moment Thomas sighed, and went to pick up the remnants of their picnic.


	7. Chapter 7

_My body is a traitor to my mind,_ Jimmy thought- the sentence pounded through his skull, a grim refrain. _My body is a traitor to my mind. My body has betrayed me._

It was an unpleasant surprise after a quarter-century to discover that his own physical being- which Jimmy had always relied on, always _trusted_- was in some way separate from the rest of him- separate and frighteningly alien.

Jimmy turned round every ten paces, convinced that Thomas would slip up behind him, and beg him back to the secret ruins- and Jimmy's steps reflected this anxiety, pushing him towards the house at a clip that was just short of running. As he went Jimmy thought of every unappealing thing he could: his mother's funeral- the way it had felt when he had been ten and taken a tumble down the front steps of his parent's flat, snapping his collarbone with a sound like a branch breaking- a selection of his worst nights in the trenches, the nights when he'd been certain he was going to die-

But the memories were meaningless, remote- they were orchestrated riots in a theatre as opposed to divine madness- and Jimmy could not shake himself loose of _madness_; it gripped him like a fever. Under the full sunlight, on the lawns that skirted the house, Jimmy could feel sweat running off the tip of his nose and down the small of his back- but still he shivered at the sensations that moved through him, and pushed back the images that suggested themselves with as much force as he could muster.

_No. Don't think of his mouth_, Jimmy commanded himself, using his brain against the body he had once entrusted with everything. The feeling of his clothes against his skin agitated Jimmy to no end, and the gravel of the courtyard crunched unbearably loudly as he made his way briskly to the servants hall. He held his jacket over his arm and his arm draped loosely in front of him, to hide his- _affliction_- lest anyone was loitering in the common area- but the hall was empty. Jimmy passed through it without hearing so much as a suggestion of another person, and took the stairs as swiftly as he could.

In his room Jimmy shut the door and then leaned against it, pressing his forehead to the wood grain. "Stay collected, won't you," Jimmy muttered aloud. His voice sounded unsteady in his own ears. The door was wonderfully cool compared to the heat of his body, and he leaned more firmly against it, taking deep breaths, and imagined death by drowning, death by fire- but his imaginings were no more effective than his memories- they all began and ended with the press of Thomas's lips against his hand, so soft at first that he had needed to look, to make sure he was really being kissed-

"Uh. _No_," Jimmy said, and slammed his hands against the door, hard enough to make his palms sting. Then he turned, refusing to meet his own eyes in the vanity mirrors, and went to the washbasin. He washed his hands thoroughly over it, scrubbing them until his skin was pink and felt a touch raw, and then washed his face as well- and then his teeth, chasing away the taste of wine and oranges. In Jimmy's mind the image of Thomas's mouth around his fingers- and an echo of sensation- played over and over, and Jimmy pressed his hands to his temples, willing it to stop.

"That's _enough_," Jimmy said, tightly, and when that did not work he conjured up one of Thomas's poems from his memory, and tried to repeat it verbatim- "You fold, you bend, you- _cover..._cover me by _thirds,_" Jimmy said, in an undertone. "You- you _stifle _me- no. Ah- you hold pockets of s-shadows in your _mass_-"

It didn't help- Thomas's words, poorly recalled or not, only made his presence more insistent- Jimmy felt, absurdly, as if Thomas were also in the room. Perhaps judging his sorry state.

Jimmy wanted nothing except to shed his unbearable clothing, and crawl into his bed. He wanted to lay between the cool sheets and press his hand- the hand that Thomas had kissed- against his own bare skin. Jimmy's body ached with unspent desire- and he needed to draw his curtains and lay in the darkness of his bedroom and think of what Thomas had done to him- the look on his face-

"_No,"_ Jimmy said- louder and more harshly than he had intended. He was not going to give in to it. _I was much better off before,_ Jimmy thought- and he was swept through by a sudden surge of abject misery. The intensity of the emotion- perhaps compounded by his physical discomfort- or the wine he had drunk in poor judgement- made Jimmy feel ill. Still the thought persisted: _I was much better off before. I can never un-know this._

The bed called out to Jimmy, but he stepped around it as if it were dangerous, and stood in front of his mirror, confronting himself. His mirror-self looked back, his eyes wide and unhappy.

"It doesn't _matter_," Jimmy said, firmly, pointing at his reflection as if in chastisement. "It doesn't matter," he said, again, letting his finger drop. "You just have to avoid thinking about it. And eventually it will go away." Infatuations could be as sudden as- as _springtime_-and as fleeting, and bouts of lust were bouts of lust, no more or less than any man had to contend with.

_I can't stay in here,_ Jimmy thought, and reached behind his vanity, pulling out his blue book. He shrugged on his unfortunately rumpled jacket, taking a deep breath, and tucked the journal away in his pocket, safe from prying eyes.

Jimmy drank several cups of cold water and went outside again- keeping to the far side of the house. The worst thing that could happen would be for him to cross paths with Thomas. The thought of meeting Thomas's eyes was uncomfortable, the thought of speaking with him difficult, the thought of looking at his _mouth_- unbearable. Jimmy found a bench and occupied it briefly, his hands wanting for his deck of cards, for anything to get his _mind _off it- but, despite the awful heat, he felt compelled to rise again, and pace the grounds until the sun was dipping on the horizon.

_You just have to put it away, and forget about it, _Jimmy told himself- and when he noticed that the hour was growing late, he forced his tired legs to turn back towards the house.

Jimmy's sense of timing could not have been worse- when he opened the door to the hall everyone was just sitting down to supper, and he balked, caught by the sudden and very powerful urge to simply turn back around, and beat a hasty retreat with no word of explanation. _Right, you start now,_ Jimmy thought, and gathered up every scrap of poise and resolve he currently possessed- and tried, very hard, not to look at Thomas, who was standing at the far side of the table.

Jimmy could feel Thomas's attention on him- it made his heart stutter in his chest, as though he were in very bad trouble indeed- and involuntarily he touched his jacket pocket, making sure that his journal was still there. Without a glance at Thomas, Jimmy made to cross the space and slip away- but then Carson appeared in the doorframe, cutting off Jimmy's route of escape.

"Excuse me," Carson said- and everybody who wasn't standing rose up, in a practiced motion- and Jimmy stayed rooted to the spot, waiting until Carson sat so that he could leave. But Carson did not sit- he remained standing, and cleared his throat, until he had everyone's rapt attention.

"As you all know, I am leaving on Monday," Carson said, with the assurance of someone who was used to being minded- "-for twelve weeks. During my absence, Mr. Barrow is in charge- and you are all to obey his orders implicitly in my stead. Is that understood?"

Carson's gaze traveled to everyone's faces amid nodding and affirmations- and to Jimmy it seemed that Carson's eyes lingered on his own for a moment, so Jimmy schooled his expression into perfect attentiveness, and nodded. "I will be _here_ tomorrow, in an unofficial capacity," Carson went on, his eyebrows drawing down on his face- "but henceforth you will all take your orders from Mr. Barrow, and seek _him_ out with any concerns. Starting immediately," Carson said, and pulled back his own chair- but he did not take a seat. Instead he gestured for Thomas to take it, and Thomas walked around the table- for a moment his head jerked, as if he would look over at Jimmy- but he did not- and then Thomas sat carefully. The movement called to Jimmy's mind the deliberate way that Thomas had lowered his body onto mossy earth. _Don't think about that,_ Jimmy told himself, forcibly- and cast his eyes downwards, so that he would not have to look at the curve of Thomas's mouth. After a pause of uncertainty everyone else sat as well- led by Bates, who had obviously sussed out the test Carson was giving and how to pass it. Carson nodded, pleased by the staff's compliance- and, surveying the room one last time, he turned back towards his office. _Very ceremonial,_ Jimmy thought- but in his mind there was no humor to be had.

"Mr. Carson?' Jimmy asked, as Carson exited the room- and Carson, without looking back at him, replied gruffly: "_Whatever _it is, James, you can address it to Mr. Barrow." With this dismissal, he disappeared.

Jimmy had only been about to say that he wasn't well and wanted to take his meal upstairs- nothing, really, a courtesy of information more than anything- but now he was on the spot. Everyone had heard them, and so Jimmy was forced to turn around, and face Thomas. Jimmy did not meet Thomas's eyes, nor did he look at any other part of Thomas's body- he spoke mainly to the floor, which did not return the kindness. "I-am-not-feeling-well-and-I-think-I'll-take-suppe r-in-my-room-if-that-is-quite-alright. Sir." Jimmy said. He did not think his tone sounded very courteous, but it could not be helped- it took all he had to grind the sentence out from behind his clenched teeth.

"Certainly it's fine. I'll have someone bring you up a plate," Thomas said immediately, and his tone was so _blatantly_ kind and so _obviously_ gentle that Jimmy wanted to grab him by his lapels and shove him out the nearest door. _Don't speak that way to me in front of everybody_, Jimmy thought- but he nodded curtly, and went to his room.

In his room Jimmy paced, and picked at his food- he was hungry, he thought- but everything was unappetizing- and his hands ached for the touch of his cards. Finally Jimmy sat at his desk, listening to people trickle upstairs, one by one- he counted them each, and opened his blue book to the first half- the soldier's half. The _dead_ soldier's half. _I can't think of anything less appealing, _Jimmy decided- and flipped through the soldier's catalogue of misery, stopping on a letter that occupied half a page, next to a rough sketch of an uniformed man who held up binoculars as if he were examining the viewer.

Jimmy turned his attention to the letter- the words were written flush up against the drawing, so that they were a bit of a puzzle to decipher-

_Today's view from the trenches offers an expanse of red-toned sky almost biblical in its foreboding. I find I am in a mood to repeat myself- so come along, Jack, and pretend you are once more a child- begging me charmingly to spin you a yarn- to keep you awake with frightful ghost stories. Now- did I ever tell you of the night- this was before you were born- when Mr. Olfott killed his wife and two daughters, and lit his land afire? He walked into the field while it burned, so the story goes, and went up in smoke with his crop. I remember being so young- and left alone in the house, while Father and Mother ran across the way with buckets of water, which I suppose must have boiled to nothing against the inferno- and then the police arrived, after ages- and Mother came back with tears in her eyes and held me to her breast, and whispered lullabies into my ear- to this day I think it is perhaps my first clear memory, that dark night lit by flames-_

"God," Jimmy said, making a face at the page- and he flipped to the latter half of the journal. _Don't read Thomas's words right now,_ Jimmy told himself- but he also told himself: _It won't matter. You can get your mind off things_-_ and maybe copy over a few more poems... _

The last of the stragglers- Jimmy had kept count- came up the stairs, and he listened to see if it was Carson, or Thomas. It was invariably one of them who was the last- but Jimmy could not hear what went on in the hall particularly well through his own door- and he was not sure if it was Thomas who had finally retired. _Regardless, he's in his bedroom now,_ Jimmy thought- and his stomach twisted at the thought, so that he had to lay his book down for a moment- and regain his composure. He tapped his left hand- the hand that Thomas had put his mouth all over- against the surface of the desk, and then, shaking his head, roughly grasped the journal. "Right," he said, and turned to a page near the end, reading the first thing he saw-

_And the weight of your tread crushed the autumn like corpses_  
_And took us to places with tenuous forces_  
_Like stallions of night, in the evening, your coursers_  
_ brought the winter back- oh, those dangerous horses-_  
_You asked "Is it falling?"- and I, with 'of courses'_  
_Became a blithe spirit, conspired with dusk-_  
_And underneath all this, the carpets, a husk_  
_The leaves were a bounty of Persian and plush_  
_And ballrooms were forests for the two of us._

_In stories I told you, you loved me the more_  
_And sheets of red fire blew off of the floor!_  
_The ground underneath was a ground you abhor_  
_I grounded you then, but you grounded me more_  
_To bridge this fine distance is merely a chore_  
_And leaves I leave with you, and, loving you more_  
_I laid grim November at fair April's door_  
_And without December, I kissed you once more-_

Beside the poem Thomas had added notes: _'Used 'more' three times in last verse. Replace sixth line?'_

-and then a series of lines:

_'-And hands I lay on you, and you I adore_  
_-In sleep I dream with you, and you I assure_  
_-Lost without provisions, and you, Mon amour-'_

But none of these alterations had made it into a final draft- Thomas had never copied the poem over.

"And without December, I kissed you once more," Jimmy said, very quietly, and shut the book. It had been a mistake to read anything Thomas had written- the cadence of his words beat a rhythm into Jimmy's head, making it impossible to focus.

_I'll just go speak with him- _Jimmy thought- and he had risen to his feet by the time his mind warned him of the traitorous machinations of his body, and Jimmy, his hands curled into fists, forced himself to sit again. He tapped his fingers on the desk in time with a song that played through his brain- drawing long, even breaths, as if he were preparing to go underwater- and the song became the borrowed tune he'd set to Thomas's words. _The keep I shut in, thin and never cheap- fell into tatters, sowing what I reap-_

"No," Jimmy said aloud, and stood once more, massaging his temples. He felt a strange tenderness in his body- of frustrated desire, of exertion- that made movement unbearable but also good, like sheets rubbing against bare skin. He took himself over to the vanity, and confronted his own reflection. Jimmy rarely had seen himself in such a state- his tangled hair and disheveled pyjamas belied the neatness required in his profession- but was his own _face_ that seemed most alien to Jimmy- and he was swept through by a wave of unreality, so powerful that he felt dizzy. _Is that really me? Is that really who I am, there in the glass?_ Jimmy thought- and brought his hand to his face, watching himself do it. Graspingly he tried to make the truth of his own existence feel less surreal- but then the feeling passed- and he was Jimmy again, just as he'd always been.

_You're alright, you're fine,_ he thought to himself- and realized he had involuntarily reached out to the mirrors. He drew his hand back, disgusted with the maudlin theatricality of the gesture, and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.

"Yes. I'll speak with him," Jimmy said. _Just for a moment, and then- and then I can sleep-_

Yes. That was the only thing for it- the only thing to put his mind at ease. _No,_ Jimmy thought, putting his book behind the vanity- _this is a terrible idea. You don't need to _talk_ about it, for God's sake- you need to forget about it._

Jimmy pulled on his dressing gown, which was difficult, in the heat- and tied it shut- and took a deep breath. _Don't touch him. Don't let him touch you. Tell him it will never happen again._

Jimmy nodded his head, in affirmation of his own resolve- and then he opened his door and crossed the hall. He did not knock politely on Thomas's door- to knock would have announced his intent- and anyways, the hour had grown late- and so Jimmy pushed into Thomas's room, and shut the door.

Thomas was washing up, and the first thing Jimmy saw were the muscles of his bruised, unclothed back- and then Thomas whirled round. Jimmy did not look at Thomas's chest, which was bare above his pyjama pants- he looked only at Thomas's face, which showed surprise.

"Good evening," Jimmy said. _This was a bad idea. Don't get close to him. _Jimmy kept his distance, leaning against the wall next to the door, and Thomas, his brow furrowed, put the washcloth down. "Good evening," Thomas said carefully, and took a step closer.

"Stay over there," Jimmy said immediately. He could feel the wall against his back- it felt like support but it also felt like a trap- and Jimmy squared his shoulders, making himself stand as upright as he could.

"Alright," Thomas said, halting in his tracks.

"Fine," Jimmy said. For a minute neither of them spoke- but that wouldn't work, either, because the silence was alive with things between them, and Jimmy cleared his throat, needing the distraction of words. "You must be enthralled," Jimmy said, after a moment. By Jimmy's sides, his hands were shaking, and Jimmy rubbed the back of his own neck, just for something to do.

Now Thomas looked truly worried indeed- and Jimmy realized that there were many ways his words could have been interpreted. Thomas started to say something- but Jimmy spoke over him- "I mean about being master of the realm," Jimmy elaborated- and Thomas shut his mouth- and then, after a moment, smiled ever so slightly- and Jimmy, who had made the mistake of looking directly at Thomas's mouth, felt his insides clench. "Well..." Thomas said, drawing out the word. His tone was an answer in itself. Jimmy nodded, tightly.

"Downstairs, anyways," Thomas added. Jimmy avoided looking at Thomas's mouth by directing his attention downwards- he was confronted by Thomas's abdomen- and he looked at the ugly bruises that marred the pale skin of it, here and there- dark plum inkblots that edged into delicate blues.

_That secret wound you carry, _Jimmy thought, recalling a line from the poem Thomas had written about his mother's earrings- and his attention wandered further down, to where Thomas's bruises disappeared, covered by fabric. There was something insultingly masculine about Thomas's body- it was _too_ masculine, and it was oddly mismatched with the delicacy of his features. If one was going to call Thomas _handsome_, Jimmy thought- it could hardly be done without mentioning in the same sense that he was also _peculiar._

_What does he look like?_ Jimmy thought. _Handsome and peculiar. What _is_ he like? Kind and wicked. The hero and the villain. The hero and the maiden, ha-ha. The poet and the agnostic._

Jimmy's eyes traced helplessly along the lines of Thomas's form- his pants clung to him, and Jimmy could see the- outlines- of Thomas's body under the cloth, and he had to avert his gaze. "Put a shirt on, won't you," Jimmy said, flatly, but Thomas did not move from where he stood, or even look away from Jimmy.

"Are you upset with me?" Thomas asked- and the non sequitur, when they had been so carefully avoiding certain topics, made Jimmy's heart skip a beat. "I'm perfectly fine, thank you," Jimmy bit out. His tone sounded oddly formal- forced- in his own ears.

"I asked if y'were-"

"I _know_ what you asked," Jimmy snarled- because he _was_ angry with Thomas- suddenly he was _very_ angry, and he fisted his hands through his hair in a helpless gesture of rage. Thomas took two steps forward at Jimmy's consternation, and Jimmy threw up his hands, palms out, in the universal motion for _stay back_.

"I won't do anything you don't want me to do," Thomas said, and Jimmy thought that he would die from that, from the acute discomfort he felt when Thomas said that, so _sincerely_, as if it were even of relevance.

"Do you still have those earrings?" Jimmy asked, for a way to change the subject. His voice was so raw and low- as if he had been shouting all afternoon- that by the end of the sentence it had trailed off unintelligibly- but Thomas had understood him- Thomas's brows knit together, and he shook his head. "No," he said, immediately.

"You're lying," Jimmy said, after a second of scrutiny. "Your parents are dead. You've got only a cousin in Bombay. Even if you had to sell all they had, after they died- you kept the earrings. I know it."

"No," Thomas said, his tone darker than it had been before. "I don't have them. So don't go looking for them."

"I wouldn't _take_ them," Jimmy said, and Thomas took another step towards him. Jimmy shifted in his dressing gown, clasping his stupidly trembling hands in front of himself, so that Thomas could not see that he had an erection. _I have to go,_ Jimmy thought. _It's hotter than the devil in here._

"Are you alright?" Thomas asked. He'd stepped closer while Jimmy hadn't been paying attention, and now they were an arm's length apart, maybe less. Jimmy could see the lines on Thomas's forehead, etched in an indication of concern. "You're humming," Thomas intoned, and carefully took another step.

"No, I'm not," Jimmy said, pressing his shoulders to the wall. The music had been in his head, that was all. He kept his hands firmly in front of him. "Jimmy-" Thomas said- and his face was anxious but his voice was kind, and Jimmy suddenly couldn't take it anymore. _I hate you,_ Jimmy thought, very clearly- the thought was so sudden and so vicious that it took his breath away- and in place of breath Jimmy was filled with a terrible _loathing_- no, it was worse that loathing- it was _horror_, absolute and terrifying- and he slammed his hands into Thomas's shoulders as hard as he possibly could, so that Thomas stumbled almost all the way back into the far wall, gasping. Jimmy advanced on him, wanting to _hit_ him, wanting to beat Thomas until he couldn't _speak_- and he raised his hands again, this time to do some grim, incalculable harm to the injured man- but Thomas had recovered, and he grabbed Jimmy in a manner identical to the way Jimmy had grabbed him- squeezing his shoulders too hard- with an expression of fixed determination.

"Get _off_ me," Jimmy snarled, and Thomas shoved him backwards- pushing with his hands and his legs against Jimmy's body- not as roughly as Jimmy had shoved him- until Jimmy's back hit plaster. They had crossed the room again, in an angry waltz. Jimmy felt almost like laughing- and Thomas looked down into his face, pinning Jimmy with his arresting eyes. Jimmy tried to shake off Thomas's grasp- but Thomas, his face set, took a step back, dropping his hands of his own volition, and then took a breath.

"I know you're angry," Thomas said- almost inaudibly. Jimmy tried to conjure up a derisive sound from his breathless lungs, but he had none.

"I know you're angry-" Thomas said again- more evenly this time- "But you can't _fight_ me now. You'll wake everybody _up_."

"I-" Jimmy had no idea what he'd meant to say- and he scraped around for anything. "I- don't feel very well, Mr. Barrow," he said, after a moment. "I think I need a bit of rest." Jimmy tried not to let his eyes fall upon Thomas's body. In the humid air it was very difficult to find enough breath, and Jimmy struggled against the too-rapid pace of his heart. "I..." he didn't move. Thomas was still _near_ him- Jimmy would brush against him now, if he tried to leave. Thomas had an erection- Jimmy saw the unmissable rise of it under the cloth of Thomas's nightclothes- and he snapped his head up, his face growing as hot as the rest of him.

"I know you don't feel well," Thomas said. His gaze was intent- and he lifted one hand, so slowly that Jimmy could hardly fail to miss it- and placed it carefully on Jimmy's upper arm. Jimmy felt his touch through his pyjamas and dressing gown as surely as if Thomas had laid a hand on his bare skin. "Ah-" Jimmy said- a noise escaped him involuntarily- and Thomas leaned over him a bit more, so that Jimmy could see every line traced delicately into the skin of his red lower lip- and the edges of the cut on the far left side of Thomas's mouth. "Tell me what you want me to do," Thomas said, lowly, and Jimmy turned his face to the side, closing his eyes. He could feel Thomas's proximity and the shaking of his own body- and nothing else, nothing else in the whole world. When he did not answer Thomas used the hand on his arm to prod him. "Tell me what you want me to do to you," Thomas said, and Jimmy's breath hitched. _ I want you- I want you to- _Jimmy thought- but he snapped the thought off at the root like a branch, and flung it away from him. He was not sure where that train of thought ran to or from- but he knew it would lead _him _to madness if he followed it. _I could go mad right now_, Jimmy thought- he pictured it perfectly- beginning to laugh and never being able to stop, sliding to the floor, gibbering and screaming until he was taken away- "I don't know," Jimmy said, tightly. "I _can't_-"

"Yes, you can," Thomas said, and put his other hand- his left- against Jimmy's chest, pressing him firmly into the wall. "Ah, Thomas," Jimmy muttered. Somehow their faces were close enough together that their lips brushed- so softly that it almost seemed not to have happened at all. But it _had _happened, because Jimmy had felt the unbearable softness of Thomas's mouth. "Mm," Jimmy said- he didn't mean to make any _sound_- but the feeling had left an odd tingling its its wake, like an itch under the skin. Thomas was leaning back and looking at him. Jimmy could see the rapid rise and fall of Thomas's chest- and the red flush that spread across his face. The marks on Thomas's shoulders where Jimmy's fingers had cruelly clutched at him during their struggle were turning rapidly into little bruises. "It really will be fine," Thomas whispered- his tone was sweet- and unsteady. "I promise it will," Thomas said- and Jimmy tensed up when Thomas leaned in again- and pressed his lips to Jimmy's mouth.

"_Ah_, god," Jimmy said, against Thomas's mouth- it was so pleasurable that Jimmy felt as if his own lips somehow directed the rest of his whole body, sending sensation washing through it in crippling waves. Thomas's mouth moved ever so slightly against his- Thomas kissed his upper lip, and then his lower lip- and then the corner of his mouth- and Jimmy could not help it- his lips parted in response- and he felt his cock strain against the fabric of his pants- he was so hard that it seemed he had never understood arousal before- he was shaking everywhere, the only solid thing in the world was the wall at his back.

"God, yes," Jimmy said, "Please, give me-" he didn't know what he wanted. _Have never even had him in my bed,_ Jimmy thought, _but want him, yes, that much may go unsaid-_ "Ah- hah," Jimmy said, turning his face from Thomas's and taking a few shuddering grabs at air. Thomas was peering at him, with concern- carefully he removed his hand from Jimmy's chest, and touched his cheek, tilting Jimmy's face towards his own. Jimmy was forced to look into Thomas's eyes- and down to the part of his lips- and he shuddered again, a full body shudder. "It's good, isn't it," Thomas said- Jimmy remembered that he himself had said the same thing hours ago- but that was a different life, a different universe than this- as if everything that had ever happened to Jimmy had happened _before_, and now he had stumbled into _after_. He wanted Thomas to do _something_, to not draw out the agony any longer, and Jimmy said- "Yes, it's very good, it's-"

"Yes," Thomas said, and dropped his arm, his hand leaving Jimmy's cheek- and by careful degrees he leaned against Jimmy. His bare skin came up against Jimmy's, and then Thomas pushed his leg between _Jimmy's_ legs, so that the muscles of his thigh pressed against the juncture of Jimmy's legs.

"_Ah, _huh, _hmm_-" Jimmy said. Thomas's leg pushed against his cock, and against his hip he could feel _Thomas's _erection, rock hard and warmer even than the stifling room. Thomas pushed them together and then stilled abruptly, looking into Jimmy's face. _Oh, god,_ Jimmy thought- it was as if he had never known how much he had needed anything until he felt Thomas's body firmly against his, and for a moment there was nothing but the sensation of blissful pressure- enough almost in itself- but then Thomas rocked his leg against Jimmy's body, so that they moved together. Thomas's erection bumped against his hip- and Jimmy felt Thomas grind ever so slightly against him. "_Ahh that_ feels ahh _that- yes- oh-" _Jimmy babbled, and Thomas bit his own lip, his eyes slitted shut, and hissed, as if he were in pain. Jimmy's hands came around Thomas's waist- and he pressed his palms against the flat of Thomas's back- trying to _hold _ him there, so that he could have more of the intense sensation of friction. "Yes," Thomas said, softly, and rocked against him again. "_Huh_, god," Jimmy moaned, and Thomas's hand was suddenly over his mouth. "B-be very _quiet_-" Thomas said- and Jimmy's heart skipped a beat- he had been so overwhelmed that he had utterly forgotten they were doing something dangerous. Thomas's left hand was touching Jimmy's side, and Jimmy leaned into the touch of his fingers. "The door," Jimmy said, tersely- and Thomas pulled away from him. Suddenly the pressure was lost- and Jimmy felt such frustration that it was almost painful- he leaned against the wall, one hand clutching his stomach, as Thomas grabbed the desk chair. Jimmy watched Thomas wedge the chair under the doorhandle. "Poor man's lock," Thomas said, and Jimmy laughed shakily. "Right," he said, and tried to still the trembling of his hands- but Thomas had come back over to him. Thomas took Jimmy's left hand in his right hand- and he squeezed it- even that was too much for Jimmy's overstimulated body, and he bit the inside of his cheeks to try and grant himself some lucidity. Thomas was standing directly in front of him again, and Jimmy reached out, to pull him closer- but Thomas did not allow himself to be pulled forward- he studied Jimmy as if he were looking at a cathedral ceiling- with reverence. "Let me touch you," Thomas said- his tone was very polite, as if he were asking for a pitcher to be passed- but his eyes were dark and unfocused with desire. Jimmy nodded- "Fine," he managed- "Yes-" and Thomas, with a looked of fixed attention, reached his hands carefully to Jimmy's abdomen, and pressed them flat against his body- Jimmy stood still, his heart pounding in his chest, and the ache between his legs growing even worse- as Thomas's rubbed his hands slowly down the line of Jimmy's dressing gown. "You're _so_- Jimmy, you're _so_-" Thomas stopped at his hips- and looked directly into Jimmy's eyes, for a moment- and then Thomas reached down and cupped his hand against Jimmy's erection. _"Oh, _sh-shite," Jimmy said, as the breath was taken forcibly from his lungs- he gasped, and his hands wound around Thomas's shoulders. Thomas did not move his hand, and Jimmy could feel the throb of his own heartbeat in his cock- and how it pressed against Thomas's still fingers. "G-god, Thomas, god, _yes_," Jimmy said, and pushed forward, into Thomas's hand- the pressure engulfed him, and Jimmy rested his head against Thomas's shoulder, with Thomas's arm trapped between them. "You feel good," Thomas whispered, against Jimmy's ear. Thomas began to move him hand- only slightly- it pressed against the shaft of Jimmy's penis, rubbing against cloth in slow circles, and Jimmy bit back a cry, and rolled his hips into Thomas's touch. "God, that's too much," Jimmy muttered. "That's too much, god, _god_-"

"Come over to the bed with me," Thomas said- and Jimmy looked at him, suddenly alarmed. "It's all _right_," Thomas said, at his expression- and Thomas sounded so honest, so _truthful_ as he spoke that Jimmy's fear abated a little, against his own reservations. "It's just hard to stand like this," Thomas said, nodding. With his hand Thomas indicated his own injuries, a bit reluctantly.

_Oh, of course,_ Jimmy thought- and in his chest Jimmy felt a strange pain- as if his emotions had taken part of his body for themselves. Still he could not will his feet to move- but Thomas removed his hand from between Jimmy's hips, and Jimmy groaned at the loss of pressure. "Wait-" he said- but Thomas only kissed his mouth- very lightly- and then his cheek- and pulled Jimmy backwards with him, towards the bed. "Come along, please," Thomas said- his voice was ruined with lust but still he managed to say it in mock-imperious tones- and Jimmy followed Thomas's mouth, and the hands that tugged at his arms, until they had reached the cot- and Jimmy watched Thomas sit down in his invalid's way- and then- with a noise like thunder in his ears- Jimmy followed suit, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Thomas was on him again, running a hand through his hair- tugging his dressing gown off his shoulders- and Jimmy complied, pulling his arms out f the sleeves of it. "You don't need to worry," Thomas said, quietly, and kissed his mouth- this time Jimmy parted his lips immediately, and Thomas kissed him more firmly, drawing their upper bodies together. "I'll take care of you," Thomas said, when he'd pulled back, for a breath- and Jimmy fought back the inappropriate urge to laugh- because Thomas was clearly not qualified to take care of _anybody_- and anyways, Jimmy had always taken care of himself- but his throat was too dry for him to laugh- and arousal was rolling over him like a great wave. It made it hard for Jimmy to sit cross-legged- he kept shifting his weight, as if that would somehow alter the painful tenderness of his body.

"Do you want to take these off?" Thomas asked roughly, grasping at Jimmy's underclothes- but Jimmy pressed his lips together and shook his head _no_- he could not bear to have Thomas see him so vulnerable- the obviousness of his arousal was already too much. "Alright," Thomas said, nodding acquiescently- and then his hands were on Jimmy's torso again, and he pushed Jimmy back, lightly, so that Jimmy was lying back against the mattress, with his head at the bottom of the bed. "Huh," Jimmy said, at the feeling of Thomas's hands on his chest, applying force. Thomas was leaning over him, and Jimmy lifted his head up, for a kiss- but Thomas only pressed one kiss to his mouth- and then one to the bare, overheated skin of Jimmy's throat- which felt so good that Jimmy muttered something in appreciation. "Mm, yes," Thomas answered, and crawled further down his body- he moved stiffly, clearly in some pain- but his movements were precise and certain- his lips grazed Jimmy's shirt at the bottom of his ribcage- and then on his navel- and then on the jut of his hipbone- making Jimmy's breath come in a strange way, with a sound like sobbing- and Jimmy rocked his hips up, his whole body tense with a painful need- _I can't, _Jimmy thought, _I have to-_

-And then Thomas placed his mouth against Jimmy's hardon- and Thomas kissed Jimmy's cock through his pants, pressing his lips against the tip of it. "_Ah,_" Jimmy moaned, lowly, trying to keep quiet. At his sides his hands dug into the bed's coverlet, pulling it up in twists- and Jimmy looked down at Thomas- Thomas between his legs, with his dark hair falling into his eyes and his dark lips moving against Jimmy's erection. _Oh god I can't I can't please-_ Jimmy thought, moving his hips up and down with jerky, incoherent motions-

"You smell good," Thomas said, his voice thick- and then he ran his tongue along the length of Jimmy's cloth-constrained hardness. "_A-ahhh_-" Jimmy blurted, and sat up immediately, rocking forward in one motion. "No," Jimmy said, shakily- for a moment he had lost all sense of his own being- it had been as frightening as the moment he had experienced in front of his vanity mirror- but this time he had almost lost himself to pleasure- and that was even more frightening, in a way. Jimmy's heart beat against his ribs like the heart of a fox caught in a hunt. Jimmy thought that his only hope- the only way to _stop_ this now, before he did something irrevocable, would be to run away, but he was so hard that he could barely crawl- and Thomas was sitting upright with him, holding him. They _both_ sat cross-legged, now- and Thomas's face and chest were splotchy and red, as if Thomas were so aroused that even his _skin _would not obey him- but his hands rubbed soothing circles onto Jimmy's back, and his eyes looked only at Jimmy's face. "Please," Jimmy whispered, and pressed his forehead to Thomas's. "Thomas- I don't know-"

"Shh, yes, it's alright, I've got you," Thomas said, and Jimmy scowled at him. "Don't patronize me, I'm not a child-" Jimmy said- though his voice broke over the sentence, but Thomas only nodded, and then kissed Jimmy's forehead. "I'm sorry, I know that, of course I do," Thomas answered- but he gathered Jimmy to himself, squeezing him for a moment. "I'm sorry, I just- I just want to be kind to you," Thomas went on, his voice a rough whisper- "I'm poor at it but I just want to be kind to you, I'm sorry-"

"Don't," Jimmy said- the sound of Thomas repeating those phrases wounded him, somehow- and he kissed Thomas's mouth to make him silent. Thomas kissed him back, and Jimmy felt the brush of his tongue- and moaned at it- it was so _intimate_- and then Thomas put his hand again between Jimmy's legs, and Jimmy stifled a sound that would have been too loud, had he given voice to it-

"Ah, yes, t-touch me," Jimmy said- he put his arms around Thomas's bare shoulders- and Thomas gripped Jimmy's erection though his pyjamas. "_Uh_, yes," Jimmy said, stupidly- and Thomas looked at him. "Jimmy," he said, quietly, and Jimmy tried to open his eyes a bit more, to indicate that he was listening- but he could move nothing except his hips, which brought him closer to Thomas's hand. "I'm going to-" Thomas said, lowly- and his fingers paused at the hem of Jimmy's pants. Thomas kept his eyes fixed on Jimmy, as if waiting for his approval- and Jimmy nodded _yes_, once- to the unasked question- although he was not positive what the question was. "I'm going to touch you," Thomas said- completing his thought- and he dipped his hand into Jimmy's pants, and gripped his leaking cock with strong fingers. At the touch of Thomas's hand against him, without any barrier, Jimmy gritted his teeth. "Nnghh_, god, shite,_" Jimmy said. His blood pulsed in his ears and his prick. He could see Thomas's face- his lips, which looked swollen- and the outline of Thomas's erection under his pyjamas- and when he looked directly down, Jimmy could see Thomas's hand on his penis, his fingers curled into a loose fist, tracing the length of his shaft. "God," Jimmy said, staring at the sight. Jimmy was so aroused that everything- even the touch- _hurt_- and the _sight_ of it hurt- but it felt so good that Jimmy could not help moving against Thomas's hand, with sounds spilling out from between his tight-pressed lips-

"Like that?" Thomas asked him, his face a mask of concentrated effort- and he changed the twist of his hands, drawing from Jimmy another low moan. "Whatever you do feels good," Jimmy ground out from between his clenched teeth- and Thomas took a shuddering breath- and kissed Jimmy's cheek, and ran his free hand through Jimmy's hair and down the back of his neck. The kiss on his cheek turned into a kiss on his lips- and Jimmy kissed back desperately, his body pushing back and forth in counterpoint to how Thomas touched him. "Do it to me like you do it to yourself," Jimmy said, breaking the kiss- and Thomas looked confused for a beat- but then he nodded. "Oh- alright," Thomas answered- and hesitantly he rearranged his hand, making a loop around the head of Jimmy's prick- and he bumped Jimmy's erection around inside of the rough circle of his fingers. Jimmy watched this, transfixed. "_Ahh _ah- t-that f-feels _very _nice, yes, I like to know how- I want to- _ah_- like you d-do it to _yourself_-" Jimmy said. he didn't know what he was saying anymore, only that he needed to come- if he didn't he would _die, _he thought he would really die-

"Yes, god, yes," Thomas was saying, and Jimmy shuddered, and moaned in frustration- he was so bloody _hard-_ but he was caught on the edge of completion- his body painfully tense. "I _can't_," Jimmy mumbled, his voice almost lost, trying to get a decent breath- but it was impossible with Thomas's hand on him. "I _can't,_ Thomas," Jimmy moaned- he felt almost frantic with need- but his body would not release him from terrible, overpowering arousal. "I _can't_," Jimmy said, anxiously, and grasped at Thomas's bruised shoulders- "I_- ahn_- I can't-"

But Thomas did not seem concerned at Jimmy's near-panic- nor at the way Jimmy turned his body frantically on the sheets- he only kissed Jimmy again, and pressed against Jimmy's lower back with his free hand. "It's just nerves, that's all," Thomas said- so matter-of-fact that Jimmy's panic abated, a little, and he felt again the staggering pleasure of Thomas's touch. "Yes," Jimmy said- he meant it as a question, but the insistent friction of Thomas's hand made him quite unable to put any inflection in his own voice. "Yes," Thomas said. "Come here. It'll help if you watch-" and he pulled Jimmy in close to him by the small of Jimmy's back, so that their foreheads were touching again. "Mmm, _ahh_," Jimmy said, looking down- and seeing his cock in Thomas's hand- "_Thomas_," Jimmy said, lowly. "I _can't_- I need you- _please_ t-_tell_ me something-"

"Yes, anything," Thomas said, squeezing his palm against Jimmy's erection- and Jimmy cried out- but he stifled the cry against Thomas's shoulder, his body heaving- and still Thomas stroked him relentlessly. "Tell you _what_, Jimmy-" Thomas whispered, his voice heavy with arousal- and Jimmy put their heads together again, staring down at Thomas's beautiful fingers as they moved. "_Uh_," Jimmy said, ""T-tell me one of your _poem_s-"

Now Thomas laughed, shakily, and shook _his_ head. "I can't think of anything," Thomas muttered, biting his lip- and Jimmy moaned again- "Ah- _ah_- t-tell me the o-one about the- I don't know- the one t-that starts- '_Oh, one loved love_-" Jimmy begged, quoting Thomas to himself.

"Uh... Oh, one loved _love_," Thomas murmured back to him- and with each line he stroked Jimmy firmly- "and one loved only _fear_-"

"Ah_, _god_, please,_" Jimmy said, running his hands across Thomas's back, trying to pull him closer.

"-and _one _held some specific temple dear-"

"God, _yes_," Jimmy hissed, bucking upwards with his hips, and looking between Thomas's lips and Thomas's hand- his heart was hammering so that he thought he would die, and he felt his body begin to tense inexorably-

"And I loved _him_," Thomas said, rubbing Jimmy's cock- "and _him- _and _his _love, too-"

"Christ, yes, oh _Christ-" _Jimmy said, feeling within his own body the refrain of Thomas's words-

"And I confess, in many ways I _knew_- that evening, that I should have said- and _you_, I love you, too, and _you_-" Thomas intoned hoarsely, and Jimmy felt himself give in- his mind letting his body find completion at last- and he moaned lowly as he came. "_Ah, ah, ah_, ahh-" Jimmy said, watching as semen spilled from the slit of his prick all over Thomas's fingers- and how Thomas kept touching him, until Jimmy was done. "_God,_ Jimmy," Thomas said, unsteadily, and Jimmy slumped into the crease of Thomas's shoulder, putting his burning forehead against Thomas's skin, his body shaking with relief.

For a moment Jimmy had no thoughts at all, and his breathing retreated from wild and shallow to more normal paces- and then he came back to himself- and he wasn't undone by love anymore- he was _aware_- for the first time, since the oranges, of what _exactly_ was happening. His cock was softening in Thomas's hand. In Thomas's _hand_. And there they sat on Thomas's bed.

_What have you done?_ Jimmy's mind asked him, abruptly- and Jimmy knew then that he was going to be sick. Jimmy stood up from the cot so quickly that he felt blood rush into his skull, making him lightheaded- and he stumbled towards the door, shoving his spent prick into his pants- and all but knocked the chair aside in his haste to leave. Behind him Thomas was saying something, but Jimmy couldn't hear what it was over the rushing in his ears- he pushed through the door and ran down the hallway, to the washroom- and scarcely made it to the toilet bowl before he vomited. Jimmy crouched over the bowl, heaving up the contents of his meager dinner. _What have you done,_ he asked himself, the refrain echoing hollowly in his own ears. _What have you done what have you done what have you-_

"Jimmy," Thomas's voice suddenly broke into Jimmy's thoughts- Thomas was _there_, closing the door behind himself- and Jimmy balked at the sight of him, and rose to his feet, wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Stay _away_ from me," Jimmy snapped, and went to push by him- but Thomas put his arms out, so that Jimmy was caught in his embrace. "It's alright, Jimmy," Thomas said, and tried to touch Jimmy's face- but Jimmy dodged his touch- and then, as he made to pull away again, Jimmy hesitated, not wanting to see the hurt that registered in Thomas's expression. "It's _alright_, Jimmy," Thomas repeated- and though his face showed pain- he looked into Jimmy's eyes, making his tone quite firm. "It's _good_," Thomas said, more firmly, when he saw Jimmy's hesitation- and Jimmy stilled in the circle of his arms. "I swear it," Thomas went on, his tone reassuring- and his face was so lovely and so sincere that Jimmy's stomach twisted- and he leaned his shaking form against Thomas's body.

"Everything is going to be fine," Thomas murmured in his ear- Thomas's voice was even, and his hands ran down Jimmy's back- but Jimmy could feel how _hard_ Thomas was, still, and how Thomas's breath hitched when Jimmy leaned against him. "I don't think it's fine," Jimmy replied, and turned his head, when Thomas leaned towards him. "Don't do that, my mouth is awful," Jimmy said, quietly. "I just-"

"Mmm, right," Thomas said, and settled, instead, for kissing Jimmy's brow.

"I am out of sorts," Jimmy said- he could not explain _anything_, certainly not how he felt- and yet Thomas's arousal did strange things to Jimmy- and he cast his eyes downwards- to where Thomas's cock rose under his pyjama pants. Thomas was so hard that Jimmy could see a little spot of wetness on the white cloth- and Jimmy's stomach flipped at the idea of Thomas being so aroused, at the _look_ of Thomas being so aroused- in a way that signaled that if Jimmy's body had been capable, the sight of Thomas- like that- would have undone him. But it was too soon for it to happen again. _It won't take long, though,_ Jimmy realized- and he deliberately pressed the flat of his hand against the jut of Thomas's cock. Thomas's eyes widened with surprise- and his face was suffused with brilliant color- his lips parted- and Jimmy watched him, fascinated- and moved his hand again. _"_Nnngh, _oh_-" Thomas said, his eyes squeezing shut. _This is why people go to jail for sodomy,_ Jimmy thought, madly, _they start and then they can't stop, they just want it again and again-_

And then a board creaked in the hallway, and Jimmy sprang back from Thomas as if he had been burned, and pushed through the washroom door, his heart pounding wildly. _Caught, we're caught,_ Jimmy thought- and he wondered why he had ever trusted Thomas to keep them safe- Thomas who had gotten caught by Alfred- Thomas who clearly had no understanding of what was at stake-

But the hallway was empty- it had been only the phantom sounds of an old house. Thomas was behind him, and in the hall he caught Jimmy's wrist. "Come back with me," Thomas whispered- and Jimmy tore his hand away, shaking his head. "_No_," Jimmy said, through his teeth. "I'm goin' to _my_ room." At Thomas's crestfallen expression Jimmy felt cruel, and so he added, clumsily, "Goodnight. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Jimmy," Thomas said- but before he had even finished the sentiment Jimmy was shutting the door to his own room, cutting off Thomas from his sight. Jimmy slumped down, his back against the door, and sat with his head in his hands for a long time- and while he sat, without realizing it was happening- Jimmy fell into a fitful sleep, and dreamed of hands and traps and tricks, and long hallways that terminated, suddenly, in darkness.


	8. Chapter 8

Jimmy awoke with a gasp- behind his head there was a thudding sound, and it was so loud that it had startled him from dreams. After a moment Jimmy realized that this was because he had fallen asleep on the floor, with his back against his bedroom door- and that the persistent _sound_ was someone knocking. _Oh, god,_ Jimmy thought- involuntarily recalling the events of the night before- then he rose to his feet, and opened his door a crack.

Thomas stood before him, perfectly coiffed, and dressed in his uniform for the first time since before they'd gone on their ill-fated trip to fair. Jimmy felt suddenly discomfited at seeing Thomas so- _professional_. It felt like he was a stranger- not the man from yesterday- and the feeling compounded Jimmy's unease.

"You're late," Thomas said, looking Jimmy up and down with undisguised concern.

"I'm sorry, I forgot my alarm," Jimmy said- when he met Thomas's gaze he was reminded inexorably of being in his _bed_- and so Jimmy stared fixedly at the buttons of Thomas's vest, instead. "I don't feel very well, actually, Mr. Barrow," Jimmy said. With one hand he massaged the back of his own neck- his muscles ached from a night of sleeping on the floor. "I wonder if I could be excused from my duties today," Jimmy went on. _Please,_ he added, silently. The thought of working was unbearable.

For a moment Jimmy could feel Thomas's scrutiny even more acutely, and then Thomas cleared his throat. "No," Thomas said, after a beat, and Jimmy snapped his eyes up to Thomas's face. "_What_?" Jimmy asked, taken aback by Thomas's refusal.

Thomas looked as if he were bracing himself for an explosion, but he met Jimmy's eyes and shook his head. "I think the worst thing you can do it sit around stewing on it all day," Thomas said, shifting where he stood. "Better to put your mind to other things."

"Oh, you just have my _welfare_ in mind, of course," Jimmy said, angrily. When Thomas's pained expression did not alter Jimmy changed tactics. "Please, Thomas, I can't," Jimmy said- and too late remembered his words from the night before, and felt his face get hot. Thomas apparently remembered too, because his eyes widened, slightly, and he put a hand, ever so gently, on Jimmy's shoulder. Jimmy wanted to shake him off indignantly, but Thomas looked so _worried_, as if immeasurably large things were at stake, that Jimmy allowed him the touch for a moment.

"I need time to get ready," Jimmy said- and leaned a bit into Thomas's fingers.

"Have it, then," Thomas said, seemingly relieved- and he gave Jimmy's shoulder another squeeze- and then Jimmy took a step back. "I'll just get dressed," Jimmy said- and Thomas nodded. At the same moment they both began to speak.

"I'll be down in a-"

"Jimmy, last night-"

"-in a _while_," Jimmy finished, looking at Thomas warily. "What?" Jimmy prompted anxiously, when Thomas did not speak further.

Thomas hesitated, but then he looked at Jimmy- and Jimmy saw the suggestion of a smile on Thomas's lips. "Last night was wonderful," Thomas said, quietly- and the hint of a smile became an actuality. Jimmy stared at him, trying to deduce whether or not Thomas had gone mad. "Wonder-" Jimmy glanced up and down the hall, but there was no one else present on the floor- "Wonderful?_" _he asked Thomas- and Thomas nodded, ducking his head in a way that conveyed both pleasure and embarrassment.

"Were you _there_?" Jimmy asked, coming to stand very close to Thomas- out of necessity. It was not a subject to be shouted about. "I mean, d'ya remember when I..." Jimmy trailed off, and looked into Thomas's eyes. "I remember it all," Thomas said- his tone was glib, but his face was earnest, and Jimmy studied him. _He loves me. He really does, even after last night-_ Jimmy thought- and he felt the _truth_ of it- but also he felt uneasy. Love would lead Thomas to make demands of him, to _desire_ things from him. _And there are things I can never, ever give him_, Jimmy thought. _And wouldn't want to if I could._

"Don't worry so much," Thomas said- and Jimmy realized he must have given himself away somehow, in some look of upset- and Thomas looked around the hallway, and pointed behind Jimmy, to his room- the gesture as articulate as Thomas's quips could sometimes be. _No, don't let him into your room,_ Jimmy thought, but still he turned and walked back into his bedroom, and Thomas followed him, shutting the door behind himself. The action filled Jimmy with trepidation that bordered on fear. _Don't touch him,_ Jimmy thought. _Don't let him touch you. Or else it'll be last evening all over again. _Thomas surveyed the room over Jimmy's shoulder- and Jimmy had a brief moment of paranoid conviction: he had left his _book _out. But of course he hadn't- it was still behind the vanity. Uncomfortably close to where Thomas stood, perhaps- but hidden.

"You're alright, though?" Thomas asked- and before Jimmy could reply Thomas was standing _directly_ next to him, and Thomas was putting his arms around Jimmy's waist-

"I'm fine, I'm _fine_," Jimmy said. Abruptly he was overwhelmed by the scent of Thomas's aftershave, which Thomas had not worn since the day they'd gone to the fair. _God, that smell,_ Jimmy thought, and resisted the urge to shut his eyes. He did not push Thomas away, but rather loitered uneasily within the circle of Thomas's arms. Thomas scrutinized his face. "You said you were ill a moment ago."

"Well," Jimmy said, clearing his throat, "I was just trying to get out of work, Mr. Barrow."

"Mmm. Maybe tomorrow. Not while the warden's still about, though." Thomas pulled Jimmy closer, his eyes intent- and before Jimmy could resist Thomas had dipped his dark head into the space where Jimmy's neck met his shoulder. Jimmy felt Thomas's proximity as acutely as a caress- which it was, almost. _No, don't,_ Jimmy thought- but his body, ever the betrayer, sagged against Thomas's arms- and from Jimmy's lips came a sigh of the most profound relief. "Don't think this means-" Jimmy muttered, into the shoulder of Thomas's suit- "-don't think it means that we can just-"

"I love you," Thomas murmured, against Jimmy's neck, effectively cutting off whatever Jimmy had meant to say. Jimmy felt the brush of Thomas's lips against his skin- and Thomas tightened the embrace, pressing Jimmy's body against his own. "Thomas," Jimmy said, quietly- "I've told you that I can't- that I can _never_-"

"Yes," Thomas agreed, lifting his head to look at Jimmy with good humor. "I love you, though. I thought y'might like to hear it. If you want me to say something more _flowery_," Thomas went on raising his eyebrows, "I'll need a little time to prepare." At this Thomas looked away, half-smiling, and Jimmy realized that it was the first time Thomas had ever broached the subject of the journal with anything resembling good humor. "Yes, I 'd love a poem," Jimmy answered, in perfect seriousness- and to his surprise Thomas _blushed_- so obviously that Jimmy laughed, forgetting his discomfort, and put his arms over Thomas's shoulders. "You're _embarrassed_," Jimmy crowed. "You wouldn't _ever_ actually write something."

"It's no laughing matter," Thomas said imperiously. His tone was dark- but he did not look unhappy- and after a silent moment, his shifted his body against Jimmy.

"Huh," Jimmy said, closing his eyes for a second, and leaning his forehead against Thomas's uniform. "They're going to miss you downstairs."

"Not for a bit. You slept through breakfast, you know," Thomas said. "I already told them you were ill." Thomas leaned forward- his slick hair pressing for an instant against Jimmy's cheek- and he placed his lips on Jimmy's neck, leaving his mouth there for a moment.

Jimmy shivered. In his body pleasure warred with unease, neither one giving way entirely to the other. "Hmm. So you tell them I'm s-_sick_, and then you come up here and- _ah-_ tell me I have to come to work?"

"It's my country now, I can do whatever I want," Thomas said lowly- and moved his body against Jimmy's. "Hmm,_ don't_,_"_ Jimmy said- and Thomas stilled, looking at him. "Sorry," Thomas said- his expression soft- and he pushed Jimmy's hair away from his face. Jimmy felt two ways about the touch- that it was overly familiar, that it was _presumptuous_- but also that it was exactly as he would have wished it. _The very thing I needed,_ Jimmy thought- and he _balked_ at the thought, and felt an awful fear- what if his _mind_ should betray him, as well? His body was already lost to him. Jimmy imagined a universe stretched before him- a universe that he had never known existed- a universe that opened up like petals, to reveal more and more secrets within its blooming heart. A place where _desire_ was the ultimate, the great All- and love and tenderness and romance and all the soppy things Jimmy so detested were entwined with it. _A universe of Love,_ Jimmy thought, and shivered. _No._

"I have to ask you to leave, Mr. Barrow, if you want me downstairs before they're back from church," Jimmy said, and took a step back. Thomas nodded- but still before he dropped his arms he leaned in for a kiss- and Jimmy turned his face, to give Thomas his cheek. "My mouth tastes horrible," Jimmy whispered- and Thomas kissed Jimmy's face again, right on the edge of his jaw.

"Mm," Jimmy said, shutting his eyes. The scent of Thomas's aftershave cutting through the humid air was perhaps the most evocative thing Jimmy had ever smelled- and he felt his resolve weaken- so he pushed Thomas back, and straightened his pyjamas.

"See you downstairs," Thomas said- however he did not appear hurt by Jimmy's rejection of his embrace, and Jimmy narrowed his eyes, looking at Thomas- who seemed- _pleased._ Quite pleased- with himself, if the arch of his eyebrows was any indication. "You left your dressing gown in my room," Thomas said. "Maybe I should keep it."

"I remember that I did, of course," Jimmy retorted, too quickly- and Thomas started to smile- but before Jimmy could issue a more composed reply Thomas had turned and slipped through the door.

"Fine, that's fine," Jimmy said, to his empty room. Jimmy realized that his hands had curled inwards, and he unclenched them, and set about washing up.

As soon as he was dressed Jimmy went to Thomas's room. _Just to retrieve my property,_ Jimmy thought- and closed the door. Immediately he was overwhelmed by memories of the night before- they came in a dizzying wave, and Jimmy leaned against the wall, where he had stood when Thomas had put his _hands_ all over him- and then-

Jimmy forced himself away from the wall, darting an uneasy glance at Thomas's bed- and then walked to Thomas's towel rack, where his dressing gown was neatly hung. Jimmy picked it up- but his eyes strayed to the bureau. _I'll have a little look,_ Jimmy thought, and went to it.

The top drawer was a mess, and Jimmy stared in surprise. He had a sudden image of Thomas- so neat by all outward appearances- as a private slob, hiding his untidiness in secret spaces- and for some reason the thought elated Jimmy, and he rifled through the drawer with all the excitement of a treasure-hunter. For a second Jimmy thought he had found his lucky cards- and he snatched up a deck- but it was only some off-brand, in a blue box- and Jimmy hissed in disappointment, dropping them back into the mix. _Where have you hidden my cards?_ Jimmy wondered- but he felt it was most likely futile to look for them. Thomas was clever. Thomas knew what he was about. Thomas would make them impossible to find.

_That's fine_, Jimmy thought, grimly, and sifted through the drawer- here was a crushed rose, dried and falling apart- here a mostly-empty jar of pomade- old lists, scratched off- a bit of pocket-change- a half-full pack of cigarettes- and papers, papers everywhere. Jimmy felt pleasure at freely rummaging through Thomas's things- and he turned each scrap over, looking for poems- but he found none. Only dull everyday stuff. _Hmm,_ Jimmy thought- and he chanced on two papers, clipped together, in the back bottom corner of the drawer.

The first paper was written on in Thomas's hand- that pretty, angular scrawl that Jimmy now knew by heart. Even seeing his writing gave Jimmy an odd feeling- of _affection_, or something- something beyond affection- a sort of proprietary emotion, as if Jimmy owned everything that Thomas set his hand to. Jimmy read the note- it was an address, nothing more- but it gave him a vague sense of import, written alone as it was:

_Mr. & Mrs. Jonathan Courtenay _  
_Botts Hill Farm_  
_17 Dudmoor Lane_  
_East Down, Devon_

Jimmy flipped over the paper- but the back was blank. _A farm,_ he thought, vaguely. Underneath the address was a newspaper clipping, and Jimmy studied it carefully.

_INSTITUTE FOR HUMAN STUDY OPENED IN CORNWALL_

_Reclusive American millionaire L.W. Hart is the financial backing for the Harcourt Institute, which opened its doors for the first time last week. The Harcourt Institute- based in Mevagissey, and headed by Dr. Jacques-Sebastian Hoyle, had previously generated much heated debate. In May an injunction was sought by the township to stop the Hart Company from altering certain aspects of historic Nellow Castle, where the Harcourt Institute is based. The injunction was denied and groundbreaking proceeded as planned. More public outcry came last week, with the Harcourt Institute being criticized as 'less than a sanatorium', 'a playground for the wealthy', and a 'frivolous enterprise' by the local papers-_

The rest of the article was torn off, but the name _Jacques-Sebastian Hoyle _was circled in ink. There was no other note, and Jimmy pondered the name. _That's a pseudonym,_ Jimmy decided- he was not certain why he believed it was so, except perhaps because the name _sounded_ as if it were made up._ But lots of names sound fabricated, or unlikely- and they're real,_ Jimmy thought. So convinced was Jimmy of the import of the papers that he almost pocketed them- but something stopped him, and he replaced them in their lost corner of the drawer.

The last thing Jimmy did before he went downstairs was stand in front of Thomas's vanity and apply the other man's aftershave. Jimmy watched himself in the mirror, tilting the bottle against his palms. _This is how he does it,_ Jimmy mused- and tried to pretend he _was_ Thomas for a moment, casting superior looks in the mirror. When he put on the aftershave, however, the _smell_ of it was so inescapable and brought with it such a slew of memories that Jimmy wished he hadn't.

_I won't be able to work,_ Jimmy thought- but he turned his feet towards the door, and went downstairs- so distracted that he forgot his dressing gown hung over his arm, and had to re-climb the stairs, to put it in his room.

_You're falling apart,_ Jimmy thought, as he put the gown on his unslept-in bed. _Don't let him do this to you._

On his way out the door for the second time, Jimmy remembered a line from the unknown soldier's half of the book.

"Today was an ugly day, Jack-" Jimmy said aloud, wondering why he should think of it. _Jack_. _Dearest_ _Jack. Today was an ugly day, Jack..._ and something about the soldier's arsonist neighbor having a farm- and good, clean work- and Jacques-Sebastian Hoyle, the oddly named behaviorist. Something. There was something to do with his blue book all wound up in that article, in that scrap of paper... or maybe not. Divine coincidence or meaningless inference. Riots in a theatre. Jimmy shook his head. _Just do your work. And don't think on it too much._ But the smell of Thomas's aftershave wrapped around him and kept him from complete composure- as if it were music, and Jimmy was compelled to dance. On the stairwells he went lightly, singing a tune he had altered. _"Once a fear pierced him, on the old deserted stairs," _Jimmy intoned. "_Or at the slightest whim or nearest chairs- t'was rather grim- but then, who _cares_-"_

* * *

Thomas _tried_ to be dour and hopeless- it would have been a fitting attitude to take as he stepped, for the first time, into Carson's illustrious position. But he could not manage it- with each movement Thomas felt as if he were treading an inch above the ground, suspended in the air- or as if he were the messiah, come to save only himself- and he walked on water when everybody else was dragged under. When Jimmy finally appeared to work, late and looking preoccupied, Thomas could not help but glance at him- and each look made his heart beat faster- not in lust alone, but with a giddy feeling of lightness that he had not endured since adolescence. _I hope it doesn't make him go mad,_ Thomas thought. It had been _love_ between them the previous evening, Thomas was certain of it- bringing a bloke off in a bed was not something Thomas would typically have marked down as the highest point of his life entire. But even thinking of it that way- as a one-off- made Thomas ill. It had been- something so _profound_- and not for him alone, but for Jimmy as well. Last night, and again, this morning- Thomas had _seen_ it, in the crease of Jimmy's brow and the twist of his hands, and his lips that had formed words like little incantations. Just to think of it made Thomas's breath hitch with desire, and sparked a thrill of happiness almost too intense to be endured. _I knew we would love each other,_ Thomas thought. _I knew it from the moment I knew you._

That didn't mean it couldn't all go badly in a moment. But Thomas had determined- with everything he had in him, every bit of love and cleverness- to see that it did not. Some things were worth the chance you took for them. He would seduce Jimmy- and love Jimmy- and make Jimmy see that it was so.

"Finally made it down, huh?" Alfred said, to Jimmy, went he came into the servant's hall- and Thomas, watching, saw Jimmy scowl at Alfred. "I was ill," Jimmy said, and sipped his coffee- not sitting, and decidedly _not _looking at Thomas.

Jimmy leaned against the wall with an air of unease. Thomas felt badly for him- it was a trying thing to come to terms with, of course- though Thomas himself could not recall a time when he had _not_ known he was- the way he was. But Jimmy seemed exceptionally against it- so much so that Thomas thought the reality of _Jimmy_ was shattering to Jimmy, as if he existed in opposition to his own being.

"Well today is _my_ half-day, and I'll be ill _tomorrow_ morning," Alfred said, smiling. "Mr. Barrow, is it quite all right with you if I'm ill tomorrow morning?"

"You're not amusing," Jimmy said nastily, to Alfred- who only laughed in response. For some reason Jimmy's barbed tones and less-than-lovely words never quite penetrated Alfred's awareness, and so he dealt with Jimmy's bad tempers with greater aplomb than most everybody else. _Stupidity,_ Thomas thought, _works wonders for getting along with people._

"I suppose if you are _very_ ill," Thomas said, gravely, and made Alfred laugh again. Jimmy looked over at him quickly- a dark glance, full of significance- and then turned away, blinking.

Thomas watched Jimmy through the day, as he himself did the things he had watched Carson do for a decade- with the practiced ease of someone who had long been an observer. Thomas observed Jimmy as well- in the halls, and at dinner, he monitored Jimmy carefully for signs of strain- but Jimmy seemed composed despite the enduring heat- he served with grace, he stood neatly still, a lovely picture, with his hands clasped behind his back. His eyes rarely met Thomas's- but when they did, he could see cracks in Jimmy's facade- a movement of his shoulders gave away the deep breaths he drew, as if to brace himself for the looking.

At the table Lady Grantham and Lady Mary were repeating an argument that Thomas had heard play out several times already. "But he's too _young_ for traveling, darling," Lady Grantham said. Her tone was gentle- _careful-_ the tone everybody used with Lady Mary now- but Thomas could hear the urgency underpinning it.

"She'll have the nanny," The Dowager Countess said. "And the butler, for some reason." Since Matthew Crawley had died the Dowager had been in attendance at most every dinner. Thomas admired her, a little, even if she was a classist and an old cow- for the way she seemed so protective over her granddaughter. Lady Mary herself seemed- _mad_- a bit- perhaps not to the casual outsider- but if you had _known_ her- the careless way she comported herself in the weeks since Mr. Crawley's death was bizarre. However this did not deter the Dowager from fighting Lady Mary's corner at every opportunity- as if she understood the overwhelming sadness that crippled Lady Mary, and which must be appeased in some manner. Thomas made a mental note to ask Mrs. Hughes, on some casual evening when Carson had been gone for a bit, about the story of the Dowager's dead husband- but it was a halfhearted attempt at speculation. Currently there was only one thing that interested Thomas.

"You could leave George _here_ with the nanny," Lady Grantham entreated. "And then he'd be safe at home-"

"Now, Cora, it's been all settled-" Lord Grantham began, but Lady Mary cut him off. "I won't be separated from him," she said, in thinnest tones- and Thomas saw Branson nod in silent agreement.

"And I'm not leaving him _here_," Lady Mary went on, holding her fork over a plate of untouched food as if she were about to fence with it, "-everybody _dies_ here." There was a beat of silence around the table.

"Well, you're hardly safe on the ocean, either," Lady Edith spoke up, from opposite Lady Mary. "After all, Patrick died at sea."

This too was met with a moment of horrified silence- and then, suddenly, Lady Mary dropped her fork- it hit the plate with a clang- and brought her hands to her face, laughing. After an instant her only sister joined in as well, and they laughed together, in strange unhappy tones, until Lord Grantham cleared his throat. Lady Edith fell silent- but Lady Mary laughed on and on, very quietly, as if the sounds bubbled from her throat came not of her own volition.

Lady Grantham took Lady Mary up to bed- Thomas could hear her laughing still as she walked away, and he wondered if she would be to her bedroom by the time she began to weep. It had been an upsetting scene-and he sought out Jimmy's attention to see what he had made of it- but Jimmy was looking at the wall as if it contained fascinating secrets- as if he had not just seen something odd. _He's preoccupied with me,_ Thomas thought- and though the mood was somber- he felt warmed, in a way he had never experienced before. _'Tell me something,_" Jimmy whispered, in his mind, and Thomas suppressed the urge to shiver.

After dinner they served drinks- well, Jimmy did- Alfred was off- and Thomas oversaw him. Thomas's ribs ached after a day of standing- and he knew it would be poor sleeping that night- but still he could not bring himself to regret it.

Carson did not eat with them in the hall- but rather had his meal in his office- and Thomas took his new seat, with Mrs. Hughes at his right. Jimmy did not say two words at dinner- but he did eat- and after dinner the atmosphere was more relaxed than ever it was when Carson sat at the head of the table. "Don't forget to be ready a half-hour early tomorrow," Thomas told Alfred and Jimmy."They have to make the train."

"Yes, sir," Alfred said. Jimmy nodded in the direction of the table- and then rose, declining Bate's offer of a card game, and went to the piano.

"I'll play," Thomas offered- and he and Alfred and Bates sat at cards while Jimmy tapped out something mournful-sounding on the piano. Anna looked at her husband's hand, and whispered some words of advice in his ear- and Bates nodded, his expression unalterably serious. O'Brien had gone upstairs- they had not spoken since their last altercation, in the courtyard- and Thomas doubted that they would speak again before she left for good. Besides O'Brien undoubtedly thought him mad now, Thomas mused, after he had made such baseless- and, he was certain, inexplicable- accusations about her having stolen his property. Thomas searched himself for sorrow at her leaving- only to find that in his distraction he had won at cards.

"I think you cheat," Bates said- Thomas _thought_ he said it in jest, but with Bates you could never be sure. "I do, but I forgot to this time," Thomas said, and offered a tight smile. Behind them Jimmy was playing a tune he could not place, and singing words he could not exactly hear.

When Bates had packed in his cards and he and Anna were saying their goodbyes, Jimmy returned to the table- and sat across from Thomas, in Anna's vacated seat. "Let's have the paper," Jimmy said, flatly, and leaned back a bit, in an odd posture, as if he were imitating relaxation.

"Mm, alright," Thomas said lightly, and reached for it. "Let's see-"

Mrs. Patmore appeared in the doorway with full hands and more good humor than it was perhaps tasteful to display- but only a touch more, in the way her scowl was turned up, and her eyes twinkled. Thomas was of the opinion that Mrs. Patmore was almost as pleased as he at the fact of Carson's going. _It's like a holiday,_ Thomas thought- and smirked- and saw Jimmy duck his head, with wide eyes. "A little bit of good cheer," Mrs. Patmore said- and at seeing Thomas's expression she gave him a smile- and laid down a plate of biscuits, and a plate of orange sections.

"I thought you said we weren't allowed these," Alfred said- somehow his mouth was already full of food, and his words were garbled.

"I don't want any of that," Jimmy said, suddenly. His tone was sharp, and Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore both threw him looks. "Well, don't _have_ any, then," Mrs. Patmore said, as if she were speaking to someone a touch slow, and Mrs. Hughes made a noise of chastisement. But Jimmy looked unaffected by it- he stared at the orange sections- and then his gaze traveled slowly upwards, to Thomas's eyes. Thomas could see from across the table the flush that spread in Jimmy's cheeks- it was the exact color of the flowering trees on the far side of the house, when in springtime they first burst forth in riotous bloom.

"Thank you, Mrs. Patmore," Thomas said, graciously- and, looking away from Jimmy, picked up a piece of orange and put it between his lips. "Well _you're _welcome," she replied- shooting Jimmy a cross look- and left.

Jimmy rose- he looked almost as if he had staggered to his feet- and walked over to the piano again. Thomas saw Jimmy sit down unsteadily on the bench- and without another word Jimmy began to play some wild-sounding tune, at half volume, but with the intensity of a mad composer- Beethoven pounding the muted keys.

"Mmm," Alfred said, from next to Thomas. He was working his way through the plate of biscuits. "Nutmeg, lemon rind... vanilla? No...uh..."

_Oh, go to bed,_ Thomas thought, and at the same moment, without turning around, Jimmy said: "Too bad we have to get up early, isn't it?"

"Oh, that's right," Alfred said. "I'd better turn in."

"And me, as well," Mrs. Hughes said, standing up. "You should sleep too, Thomas," she added, giving Thomas a warm look which he made an effort to return. "You're still not well."

"I doubt I'll be able to sleep tonight," Thomas said. "I think I'll stay awake straight through."

"By no means," Mrs. Hughes said, sternly- and patted his hand as she left.

The oranges, half-gone, sat on the table. Jimmy still played with his back turned, but his hands had turned to another song- and Thomas smoked and made some pretense of looking at the paper- until Jimmy made the tune more complex- and then began to sing, in a soft tone- which was a little flat, but no less lovely for it.

_"Narcissus welded things together," _Jimmy sang- and Thomas's fingers froze around his cigarette- because the words were his. _I scratched that poem out, I know I did,_ Thomas thought, but Jimmy sang on, impossibly knowledgeable.

_"Narcissus sang his dungeon song," _Jimmy went on- and Thomas felt a flash of indignation- but he forced himself to get _by_ it. It meant something when Jimmy behaved in this fashion. Something important.

_"Narcissus touched his own creation," _Jimmy said, his voice low and a touch hoarse- but evocative, full of moodiness and hints of dark nights and dances.

_"Narcissus played along-_

_The hero threw his arms around him_  
_And then the hero kissed his brow_  
_The hero did surround, surround him_  
_The hero held him tightly now_

_Narcissus slayed a dragon and_  
_Narcissus slayed a peach_  
_Narcissus and his entourage ran_  
_Into the surf, from the beach-_

_Narcissus loved him truly and_  
_Narcissus loves him still_  
_the hero, dreaming, darkly, waits_  
_and so Narcissus waits as _well_-"_

Jimmy held the last note, stretching it out into realms of melancholy, and only when he had finished did Thomas move at all, and only to push away the paper and pull forward the ashtray. Jimmy's shoulders showed tension in the line of them, and when he turned, he had a look of trepidation on his face.

"How did you-" Thomas began, and Jimmy talked over him. Jimmy still had spots of color evident on his cheeks, and he looked at Thomas as he spoke, and then away. "It took me two days to copy that over," Jimmy said, in a casual tone that held a false note. "I had to go out in the sunlight."

_Ah_. "You got some lines wrong, though," Thomas said, meeting Jimmy's tone of nonchalance with his own approximation- which was much better. "It's, uh- 'Narcissus _loathed_ him truly, and Narcissus _loathes_ him still-"

"I _know_ that," Jimmy answered, quickly. "It just sounded better this way, is all. Otherwise it ends on such a sad note."

"Right," Thomas said, looking at him.  
"Can you throw those away," Jimmy said- and with a jerk of his hand he indicated the tray of oranges.

"You don't want any?" Thomas asked, picking up another section for himself- and his doing it made Jimmy close his eyes and bow his head, as if he looked away from something blinding. At the consternation that worked itself across Jimmy's red-tinged face Thomas relented, and rose- painfully- with the tray. "Alright," he said, and Jimmy opened his eyes- though the twist of his brow did not ease. "Alright," Thomas said again- and Jimmy stood abruptly, swaying slightly on his own two feet, as if he had been suddenly compelled to dance.

"I'm going to bed," Jimmy said- and glanced sideways at Thomas. "When you come upstairs for the evening, would you be so kind as to pay me a visit?" Jimmy had started the sentence easily enough, but by the end his voice was so low that it had devolved into a mutter- and Thomas took a moment to understand the invitation.

"Yes, of course," Thomas said, after a pause. "If I'm welcome."

For a second Jimmy's jaw worked as if he were about to speak- but then he only nodded, and turned from Thomas, striding briskly out the door.

_He wants me,_ Thomas thought- and he felt so full of helpless happiness at the thought that his heart ached within him.

Thomas threw away the oranges with a touch of regret, and took the keyring- _his _keyring, now, which Carson had entrusted to him with so much solemnity that Thomas had felt as if he were being knighted- with a set of keys instead of a legendary sword- and went about the house, locking up, and turning out the lights. By executive decision he chose to leave some select windows open- it really was _too_ hot for comfort. All the while he worked Thomas forced himself not to hurry, to do things right- which was difficult, when he knew Jimmy was upstairs, wrapped in some terrible inner turmoil, and waiting for him.

Upstairs, Thomas washed up with a speed he would have never thought he was capable of- especially given his current unwellness- and changed into his nightclothes. Jimmy had been in his room- Thomas had noticed earlier that Jimmy's dressing gown was gone- but Jimmy hadn't found his cards, and he hadn't taken anything else that Thomas could see. After a pause, Thomas went to his closet, and from one of his old sets of shoes- from the _left_ shoe, actually- he pulled out a little box, lined in velvet- and pocketed it. After Jimmy's speculation of the day before Thomas had thought it most advisable to hide his mother's earrings more thoroughly- because, worthless as they were, Jimmy had a talent for ferreting out the objects that meant the most to him. _You hid them yesterday, and now you're bringing them to him,_ Thomas thought- but some intuition- or urge towards sentimentality- worked through him all the same, and with the box in the pocket of his dressing gown, Thomas took a deep breath- and went to Jimmy's door.

Thomas pushed the door open by cautious degrees- he half-expected Jimmy to begin shouting at him the moment he showed his face, in some grim repeat of transgressions past- but Jimmy was sitting on the cot, with the coverlet pulled up to his waist, and he looked at Thomas wordlessly. The whole room had a staged feeling to it. Jimmy had pulled his desk chair up to the bed, in an imitation of how he sat in Thomas's room- and Thomas started towards it- but as he went his eyes moved to the top of Jimmy's bureau, and he saw- he saw his _book_, lying there obviously. It was unmistakable- the blue of it was the brightest color in the room- and Thomas's first urge was to _run_ to it, to snatch it up- to take it back to his room and pore over it, and be lost once again within the comforting embrace of the life contained within it. But there was the rigid way that Jimmy held his body, under the coverlet- as if he was ready to leap up at a moment's notice and _fight_- and Thomas thought, distinctly: _He left it out on purpose. This is a test. Make sure you pass._

So Thomas stepped over to the chair, and said, lightly, "I suppose we'll have a lot less work come tomorrow. Lady Edith's going to London with them, you know, but she's staying on there after they go to America."

Jimmy's taut expression settled into something else- relief, perhaps- and he nodded- and moved over on the narrow bed. "Don't sit there," Jimmy said, quietly, indicating the chair. "Sit _here_. And for god's sake, make a 'poor man's lock'."

_Poor man's lock_ brought Thomas sharply back to the previous evening- and how Jimmy had leaned against the wall as Thomas had shoved the chair against the door in his own room. Apparently they both had the same recollection at the same moment, because Jimmy took an audible breath- and Thomas picked up the chair- and slid it to the door- and then came over to Jimmy- who stared at him, and moved over scant inches more.

"Well," Jimmy said, flatly. "Come on, then."

"Ah-" Thomas surveyed the scene- and lowered himself onto the bed slowly. Jimmy did not pull the coverlet down- so Thomas had to sit atop it, while Jimmy lay underneath. But still their legs were pressed flush against each other, with only the blanket as a barrier, and they sat stiffly side-by-side in the narrow bed. After a stretch of silence, Thomas half-turned his protesting torso, to look in Jimmy's face- but Jimmy leaned away, and said, "No, I don't want to do that- just- let's just have a _conversation_-"

"Right," Thomas said, and faced forward again. He could see a gleaming line of blue atop the bureau from where he sat- the edge of his secret journal.

"I hate that poem," Jimmy said, and Thomas glanced over at him. "Well, I _did_ cross it out," Thomas answered.

"No, not like that," Jimmy said. "It wasn't poorly written. It's just that-" the coverlet rose and fell as Jimmy took a deep breath. "It bothers me," Jimmy said, in a low tone- the sentence came out with solemnity, as if it were a confession of great import.

"I'm sorry," Thomas said, "I-"

"You're _mocking_ me in it, and yourself, too, for loving me," Jimmy said. "Because you don't know why you feel anything for me. Because you think I'm _shallow_." Behind Jimmy's constructed tone, Thomas could hear _pain _- and great boundless realms of feeling- in Jimmy's words.

Thomas turned to face Jimmy again, but Jimmy was restlessly pulling at the corner of the blanket, his eyes only on his hands. "I'm sorry, Jimmy, but it _is_ my private writing," Thomas said. "And I _don't_-"

"I'm _not_ shallow," Jimmy said, vehemently. "You're wrong if you- if you could _compose _like Rimsky-Korsakov- if you could _act _like Theda Bara- would it be wrong to use it?"

"No, of course not-"

"Well I _can't_ compose and I can't act," Jimmy snapped, his tone suddenly full of malice. "And I'm not rich and I haven't _got _anything- so why shouldn't I do the best with what I- with my..." The anger was gone from Jimmy's voice. "I'm not shallow, though."

Thomas could agree with that- if he had been possessed of any lingering doubts, the past few days had erased them. Jimmy was as deep as deep could be- he was a _well_, he was the ocean- and Thomas felt like a primitive man, studying the tides without the vaguest understanding of what made them rise and fall- but he knew that there was something _greater_ in the movement of the waters, some divine orchestration of intent- that he had only barely begun to grasp.

"I understand that," Thomas said- and brought his hand to Jimmy's cheek, to look into his eyes. "I was upset when I wrote those things," Thomas said- though it pained him to discuss it. "I don't believe it now. I barely did then."

Jimmy pushed Thomas's hand away, weakly, but kept his eyes affixed to Thomas's face. "You didn't mean it," Jimmy said, in an undertone. "That's why you crossed it out."

Thomas nodded. "And- I know what it is to get ahead on good looks. I used to be quite handsome myself, y'know," he added, but Jimmy's eyes widened. "_Used _to be-" Jimmy said, and then closed his mouth, and glanced away.

Thomas wasn't going to let the uneasiness remain between them. Inwardly he felt giddy, as if he had been granted Christmas, unexpectedly, in the midst of all this heat- or as if life were a New Year's celebration, each night a champagne-soaked moment that went on and on. _I do love you so,_ he thought, and reached into the pocket of his dressing gown, and pulled out the little jewelry box. He held it out, letting his arm press against Jimmy's chest, the lid tantalizingly closed.

Jimmy did not ask: _What is that?_ Jimmy was just as- as _fixated-_ as Thomas had imagined him to be. Jimmy's first question was- "Are those the _earrings_?"

He said '_earrings_' in a solemn voice, as if he were about to bear witness to the opening of the Ark of the Covenant- and he reached of his hands, as if to grab the box away- but Thomas jerked his own hand back, holding the box out of reach.

"Yes," Thomas said, attempting to be stern. "You'd better not _steal_ them- or _borrow_ them, whatever you say. I wouldn't take very kindly to it."

"Just show them to me," Jimmy said, his tone insistent.

"Let me smoke in here," Thomas said, and Jimmy nodded a hasty affirmative. "Go ahead, I don't care," Jimmy said.

"I need an ashtray," Thomas returned- and Jimmy made an irritated noise, and shimmied out from under the blanket- walking right by the bureau that had the blue book atop in without so much as a glance. After a moment at the vanity, Jimmy dumped cufflinks out of an unused ashtray and tossed it to Thomas, who caught it in his free hand. Jimmy was already climbing back onto the cot- and Thomas waited for Jimmy to get back under the blanket- and then lit a cigarette, making sure he had Jimmy's full attention.

"Drag it out a little longer, why don't you," Jimmy groused. His leg pressed up against Thomas's. "A-_hem_," Thomas said, trying not to smile at Jimmy's poorly-covered interest- and then he uncovered the lid of the box- and pulled out the old earrings that had so often in his youth played the part of a vast cache of treasures. They both caught the dim lamplight in their three blue jewels, each larger than the last, falling down like drops of rain.

"The three circles-" Jimmy said, and took them from Thomas, holding one and then the other up in the air. "I see it perfectly," Jimmy whispered, his voice far away. "Rent thrice, refracting, ostentatious, _bright_-"

"Mm," Thomas said, and exhaled a cloud of smoke, which wrapped around the earrings, temporarily obscuring their brilliance.

"You're quite exceptional," Jimmy said, his tone very serious. "You made them- almost- transcendent, somehow. As if they were greater than the sum of their parts."

"Right," Thomas said, rolling his eyes- he felt more chagrined than he had expected to- and he took the earrings from Jimmy's hands- and put them back in the box, and tucked the box away.

Jimmy watched the earrings disappear with avid interest- Thomas made a mental note to hide them _very_ carefully when he returned to his own room- but Jimmy voiced no protest, and after Thomas had done it he put out his cigarette, and turned. Jimmy faced him, his body angled towards Thomas's- though, given the narrowness of the bed, there was no other way it could have been. "Tell me one of your poems," Jimmy said, as Thomas leaned forward. Jimmy's eyes searched his face, and Thomas resisted the urge to laugh. "Fine," he said, hoping that his voice sounded as long-suffering as he felt. "What d'ya want?"

"Oh," Jimmy said, his eyes closing for one brief instant- "Good. Thank you. The one about the man and his love- and they're alone in the house-"

"The _what_?" Thomas asked. "I don't-"

"The house held still as curtains, but they _moved_," Jimmy said- "Through terrains flat or cumbersome or loose-"

"Oh, god," Thomas said, with a groan. "That one's _long_, Jimmy, I don't know if I can remember it-"

"I'll help you," Jimmy said. "I remember it."

Thomas sighed- but he ran one hand through Jimmy's hair, and Jimmy pressed into the touch. "Fine," Thomas said, again. "The house held still as curtains, but they moved- through terrains flat or cumbersome or loose- and when the skies were drear they made their truce-" Jimmy leaned forward minutely, and rested his forehead against Thomas's shoulder. His proximity made Thomas's heart begin to pound in his chest, a slow resonant beat that gradually took on greater speed. "I- I don't recall the next verse," Thomas admitted, and as Jimmy shifted, Thomas caught the last vestiges of Jimmy's aftershave. "That's not your usual scent," Thomas said- he knew exactly what Jimmy wore typically- _Non Vir_- a cheap brand that Thomas would once have turned his nose up at. Now the smell of it never failed to make Thomas feel almost giddy with physical desire. Thomas had even entertained, on some occasions, the thought of purchasing himself a bottle, just to have- but the idea was too pathetic, and he had never followed through. Jimmy's brow creased at Thomas's words, and he shook his head.

"Is it... is it mine?" Thomas asked, taking a breath through his nose. "Are you wearing _my_ aftershave?"

Under his scrutiny Jimmy nodded, his hand coming up to the collar of his own shirt to toy with it restlessly. "I thought I would like it," Jimmy said, lowly. "But it's... driving me mad, actually. I feel like you're always standing... just behind me-"

"Hmm," Thomas said, and bent a bit more forward, to brush his lips against Jimmy's mouth. Jimmy held himself unmovingly- and then his lips opened slightly against Thomas's- and Thomas kept himself from making a sound of pleasure. The touch of Jimmy's mouth made him feel overly warm- a heat that worked through his body, to curl and settle in his abdomen. The blanket between them felt thinner than cobwebs. Jimmy pulled back- as if with an effort- and regarded Thomas with a terse expression. "The poem," Jimmy prompted, a touch breathlessly. On the comforter his right hand tapped out an unsteady beat- a quirk, Thomas knew, that betrayed Jimmy's unease. _Alright, alright,_ Thomas thought- and grasped Jimmy's right hand with his own, running his thumb over the back of it. "I don't remember it," he repeated- and Jimmy's lips, dark from having been kissed, parted at the touch. "Uh," Jimmy said- and cleared his throat audibly. "It's- _ah-_ 'and called the _atoms_ up from pots that sang'..." Jimmy paused, looking at Thomas expectantly, and Thomas could see the flush on Jimmy's throat- the color that gave away Jimmy's desire. _Oh, yes,_ Thomas thought, his mind blank, so taken in was he by the loveliness of the sight.

"Go on, please," Jimmy said, rocking back and forth as he sat, his body too close to Thomas's for clear thought. Thomas forced his mouth to work- and he recited, unsteadily:

"And called the atoms up from pots that sang  
Euripides, to punctuating rain  
and poured like aged silver down the drain  
the coalescing ambiance of _love_,"

Thomas said, and scoffed at his own ludicrous words- but Jimmy did not scoff- he sighed, his breath hitching, and reached out- very slowly- pulling his hand out from under Thomas's, to touch Thomas's mouth with his fingertips. "Yes," Thomas said- Jimmy's fingers were feather light, and the touch sent sparks through his mouth, which felt too-sensitive- and through his legs, and fingertips, and everywhere- until his whole body ached.

"Oh," Jimmy said, rubbing his thumb against Thomas's bottom lip- "Oh, their cathedral cracked from side to side-" When Thomas made no reply, save for gritting his teeth against the assault of sensation that Jimmy worked upon him, Jimmy went on with his recitation, so solemnly that he could have been standing at an open grave.

"With errant avenues they found their way  
Diminished as they were by time and tide-

There, _there_, t-they said-" Jimmy stuttered for a moment, but went on:  
"-are all the things we are-  
In cabinets, all that we could have been,  
An excellence in artifacts by far  
Unmasking things they swore they hadn't seen-"

"Ah, _god," _Thomas said, and dragged his face away from Jimmy's touch- he had to have more of Jimmy, he would go mad if he didn't- and Thomas brought his lips to the side of Jimmy's neck, kissing him there firmly, as if with lust alone he could devour him. Under Thomas's mouth Jimmy's pulse beat rapidly in his throat, and Jimmy took small gasping breaths- and his skin tasted like salt and heat and _wine _and oranges- and-

"God, I want you, I want you so _much_," Thomas said- he hadn't meant to say it, so boldly- but Jimmy had halted his speech at Thomas's kiss, and at Thomas's words he shivered, as if Thomas had uttered something frightening. Thomas laid one more kiss on the base of Jimmy's throat. "Oh," Jimmy said, his brow creasing- and then Thomas leaned back, to look at him. "J-just- just tell me the next part," Jimmy managed, in a cracking voice- and massaged the back of his own neck, and tugged at his collar.

"Ah-" Thomas put his hand to Jimmy's shoulder, looking into his face. Embarrassment was leaving him- everything that was not arousal was diminished, except for the painful love he always felt- and he saw Jimmy's glance move over his body, and then quickly up to his face, as if Thomas had caught him at something. "It's- uh- it goes '_he moved _within_ her-' _" Jimmy said. With his right hand he touched the buttons at the top of Thomas's shirt- not undoing them, just touching them, and by extension the skin underneath.

"I'm beginning to think you have a fixation-" Thomas said, trying to make his voice even- it wasn't true- actually he had thought it for a little _while_, now- and at his words Jimmy scowled, and looked away. But Thomas ran his hands along Jimmy's chest, tracing the contours of his body- and Jimmy closed his eyes, and sank backwards, by slow inches, until he was lying down- and he tugged Thomas down, too- so that they lay together- Thomas on his side, favoring his injured half- and Jimmy on his back, the coverlet to his waist. "Thomas," Jimmy said, "_please_-"

"Yes," Thomas said- with his thumb he rubbed a line up Jimmy's neck- and down again, moving across his shirt-covered chest and drawing a gasp. "_Ah_, do it," Jimmy said, his body moving slightly upwards, against the mattress. Thomas felt his own erection brush against Jimmy's hip, pushed together as they were- and even without it being skin-on-skin the pressure was aching, unbelievable- and he had to force himself to keep still, to resist seeking out more friction with his body.

"He moved within her as within the house;" Thomas said, and Jimmy reached up, and tangled his hands in Thomas's hair- Jimmy's face was constricted with pleasure, and as Thomas spoke he watched Jimmy's mouth echo his phrases silently.

"A figure in a dream, he could not wake," Thomas said, trying to keep his voice intelligible-  
"and when he did, he longed to shut dreams out- If only for his only lover's sake-"

"Then how she begged him- _ah_-" Jimmy said, as Thomas drew a line down Jimmy's abdomen- and back up again to his chest- tracing above his shirt his ribs, his nipples, the outlines of his collarbone- and down again, to circle his navel. "H-how she _begged_ him in the corridor- in the red parlor- lying on the- _ahh, _god, Thomas- lying on the _stair_-"

"With her dark glance," Thomas said, bringing his lips to Jimmy's ear- "she searched him and accused him- she saw his love still plainly painted there-"

"Hn," Jimmy said- and Thomas moved his hand lower still- only to bump against _Jimmy's_ hand, covered by blankets- and he realized that Jimmy was already touching himself. "Ah," Thomas hissed- it was too erotic, to look into Jimmy's face and realize he was doing _that_. "Oh, my love," Thomas said, pressing his body more firmly to Jimmy's. He kept his hand resting over Jimmy's hand as Jimmy touched himself- and Jimmy stilled his movements, looking pained. "Let me do that for you," Thomas said- and Jimmy shook his head. "Uh- _no_, I- I'll do it," Jimmy said, tersely. He could not meet Thomas's eyes- and Thomas almost felt _hurt_ for an instant- but then he thought of the strange way that Jimmy had arranged his room, and how Jimmy had been ill the night before- and the odd test Jimmy had laid for him with the journal. _We went too fast before- it was too much for him,_ Thomas thought- and his heart stung a bit, at the idea that Jimmy should feel so trapped within his own self- that it should be so terrifying to have what you wanted. What you needed. _He needs me,_ Thomas thought. He did not think it lightly, as he had in some old affairs- and had inevitably been proven wrong about. This was different, though- in some inexplicable way. The thought filled him with a profound sense of import, and in his mind and his body Thomas ached with love and want- and he moved his hand back to Jimmy's chest, and pressed a gentle kiss to Jimmy's brow. "Alright," Thomas said, and slid his hands again over Jimmy's stomach, drawing from the other man a moan. "I- ah-" Jimmy said, his eyes opening for a moment as Thomas kissed his mouth. Jimmy's legs tensed- under the blanket they were parted, and Thomas could see, when he glanced down the length of the bed, the telltale movements of Jimmy's left hand, as he stroked himself. Jimmy's hips bucked up, a hiss issuing from between his lips- and his thigh pushed against Thomas's cock.

"Say something to me," Jimmy muttered- but Thomas instead took Jimmy's trembling mouth again with his own- and with his hand he applied pressure to Jimmy's taut abdomen, feeling Jimmy arch upward at his touch. "_Ah_, yes, like that, I-" Jimmy said, into Thomas's mouth- and Thomas bit down, softly, on Jimmy's lower lip. "Hhn," Jimmy said- and he kicked the coverlet furiously off of himself, and pulled at Thomas forcefully, mindless of his injuries, dragging Thomas half-atop him. Jimmy had his pyjama pants pushed halfway down- and Thomas watched Jimmy touch himself, his erection sliding forward and back between his looped fingers. Jimmy's leg was between Thomas's legs, and Thomas rocked himself against the pressure, gritting his teeth. "Talk t-to me Thomas, _please_," Jimmy whispered, roughly- and Thomas found that he could not think of a single line of writing- and so he said whatever came to his lips instead, unguardedly, as he never had with a lover-

"Oh god, Jimmy I need you _so_- and you're so lovely, your body and your- your _mind_- it isn't only _that_- you're _so_-" Thomas kissed Jimmy's ear and the spot on his face before his ear, and the line of his jaw, and he spoke in between kisses- "-terribly- it hurts _terribly_- seeing you this way I could- I could- _ah_- that feels good- I could almost _die_-"

"Ah, _ah_, y-yes, _please,_" Jimmy said- and they rocked back and forth together, Jimmy's face caught in helpless pleasure- and Thomas touched Jimmy's body, everywhere that he could reach- and felt his own hardon rub against Jimmy's leg- and Jimmy's fingers bumped against Thomas's thigh as he touched himself- and Thomas _pushed_ with the flats of his palms against Jimmy's abdomen, pinning him against the bed- and Jimmy moaned, moving under his touch, his hips thrusting upwards against Thomas's restraining hands-

"_Oh-_oh, oh- like that, _oh_," Jimmy said, his face constricted with effort- Thomas could feel Jimmy's hand speeding up- and he spoke, burying his face in Jimmy's neck. "I want to _touch_ you," Thomas said- emphasizing the sentiment with the pressure of his hands- "-and I want to put my _mouth_ on you, and I want to be _inside_ you, and I want you to-"

"_Ah,_ ah- _Thomas-_" Jimmy said- and with his right arm he squeezed Thomas painfully tight- and his muscles tensed under Thomas's hand and against his erection- and then Jimmy uttered a wordless moan, and Thomas muffled the sound, capturing Jimmy's mouth in a kiss- and Jimmy came, arching against Thomas, over and over, until finally his hips stilled, and he lay without moving, drawing shivering breaths.

"I love you," Thomas said- because it was true, and because, though he knew it always, he felt he had never known it so acutely as at that moment- and Jimmy's eyes opened again. Jimmy looked at Thomas, with a vast wealth of emotion- much of it beyond description- evident in his gaze. "I love you. All of this- it makes me love you more," Thomas said- and kissed Jimmy's temple. "And more and more."

"Really," Jimmy asked- he asked it without inflection, but his brow creased, and with his unsoiled hand he touched Thomas's face. "Even now," Jimmy added- it still didn't _sound_ like a question- but Thomas nodded. "_More _now- now that I know you- _hmm-_" he said- Jimmy moved his leg- and Thomas, painfully aroused- rubbed against him, trying to slake the fires of lust that burned in his body, making his stomach ache and his cock leak. _Don't- he looks calm, right now- don't push it too far-_ Thomas's better judgement told him- and Thomas rolled over, so that he lay on his back next to Jimmy, each of them almost pushing the other off of the cot.

"What are you doing?" Jimmy asked, turning onto his side, and looking down at Thomas. Jimmy's gaze was still hazy, and his lips quite red- and Thomas took in the sight of him- and pushed his pants down, and wrapped his hands around his own prick, trying not to groan at the relief of it. "Bringing myself off," Thomas said- and Jimmy looked away, embarrassedly- but then he looked back, his attention fixedly on Thomas's hands, as Thomas touched himself.

"Does it feel good?" Jimmy asked, quietly, after a beat- and Thomas looked at him, and nodded, trying not to feel ridiculous under the scrutiny. "Of- of course it does, what d'ya think?" Thomas asked- and Jimmy nodded, and wiped his hands on the coverlet- Thomas could just see him do it- and then he put one hand to Thomas's chest, avoiding the bruised spots, and drawing patterns on his skin. "Does it feel better when I touch you?" Jimmy murmured- and Thomas, shutting his eyes, nodded. "Yes," Thomas bit out- and he felt Jimmy's other hand come to rest atop his abdomen, as he stroked himself. "Hmm, yes," Thomas said- and Jimmy was kissing his mouth- Jimmy was doing back to Thomas what Thomas had done to him- and Thomas's body twitched, and chills worked through him- and he felt his body tense-

"I'm very close," Thomas said, as evenly as he could- he didn't know if it would be too much for Jimmy- but Jimmy nodded, his lips brushing against Thomas's mouth. "Yes," Jimmy said, and kissed Thomas again- "yes, do it-"

"Ah- alright- yes-" Thomas said- and pulled Jimmy tightly to himself- "_Ah-_"

"Yes, oh god, like _that_," Jimmy said- and Thomas's body tensed inexorably- and heat washed through him, in a dizzying wave- _"Ah_, Jimmy, _god_-" Thomas moaned- and came, with Jimmy kissing him.

The room went away for a moment, and when Thomas opened his eyes again Jimmy still lay against him, and on the bureau a line of blue still gleamed. Thomas's dressing gown was on the floor- he could not recall removing it- and he reminded himself to check for the little box in the pocket before he left- lest Jimmy abscond with it and never give it back. Thomas's eyes went over to Jimmy- but Jimmy half-dozed against his chest. "Do you want me to go?" Thomas asked- he knew that Jimmy preferred to be alone after these- _encounters_- but Jimmy shook his head, his eyes scarcely slitted open. "No," Jimmy said, tiredly. "Stay here with me a little while."

Thomas had walked a narrow path between hope and despair- trying not to be again a fool- but at Jimmy's words he felt himself pushed- forever and inexorably- over the line, into the starry realms of hope. _You're in it for good, now,_ Thomas thought. _You'd better pray it turns out all right._

But Thomas was terrible at praying- his heart was never in it-and so he only lay against Jimmy, savoring the moment, as his pulse slowed- and felt his love, which dragged him like a current, and pulled him under-

_Love dragged me down,_ Thomas thought,_ and pulled me under- and now I shall be torn asunder- _and he smiled at himself, wondering if Jimmy would be envious of his very thoughts. _He would if he knew there was poetry in them,_ Thomas mused, and stroked a hand through Jimmy's hair.

"Mmm," Jimmy said, into Thomas's ear. "You could tell me the rest of that poem." Thomas resisted the urge to laugh- and he kissed Jimmy's cheek- and did as he was told, with _hope_- like a stone- and like a salve- against his chest.


	9. Chapter 9

In the morning- the _early_ morning- forced as he was to rise, because of the departure of Mr. Carson- Jimmy studied his own reflection. It was a habit, born out of a combination of vanity and necessity- but Jimmy, since the arrival of the blue book into his hands, had been increasingly dissatisfied with the results. _Oh, I look the same, of course,_ Jimmy thought, brushing a stray hair back from his brow. _But I'm not the same, am I?_

It was as if the man if the mirror had slipped further and further away from Jimmy's reckoning- and this morning, when he had woken up, there had been a stranger standing before him. Jimmy stared into his own eyes- but his gaze held no fascination for him. There, on the bureau, was the blue book- the first thing Jimmy had looked for when he'd woken. _It's still here,_ Jimmy thought, and turned around again, to reconfirm the fact of the book's existence.

Thomas hadn't taken back the journal after Jimmy had fallen asleep. _Perhaps he cares for me more than the unknown soldier,_ Jimmy thought. It was a persuasive thought- and Jimmy turned back to the mirror, to see if the stranger who owned his reflection agreed. _Don't look so bloody happy about it,_ Jimmy remonstrated his mirrored image. _It doesn't matter. And anyways, the soldier's dead._

But thinking of Thomas called to mind strange, intoxicating images- memories- of how Jimmy had fallen to sleep, with Thomas whispering in his ear, laying down poetry in hushing tones.

"There was to him some comfort in it still," Jimmy said, to the man in the mirror. "The house was like a draught of her _perfume_-"

In his memory Thomas completed the phrase, whispering in his ear: _"And drafts that moved like _ghosts _across the space- made papers flutter in his sitting room-"_

Jimmy shivered, despite the heat- even in this early morning it had not abated, promising a day as unbearably hot as the last. Even now Jimmy could feel his shirt beginning to cling to his overwarm skin. _Perhaps,_ he thought, _I'll just read that poem one more time before I go-_

But there wasn't time, not when it was _Carson_ who required packing up- and so Jimmy sighed, and went downstairs.

Carson was as imperious as could be imagined- he was demanding and bossy by turns- or simultaneously- and Jimmy and Alfred hustled back and forth with trunks and piles upon piles of valises as if the world were coming down about their heads. Thomas was exempt from all heavy lifting, but still he got the worst of it: Carson lectured him for a while in his office, and lectured him rather publicly in the servants hall, and lectured him in the driveway even as Jimmy was loading things into the automobile- and Thomas bore it all mostly patiently. Carson really _did_ treat Thomas like an errant child, Jimmy thought. Especially now, when circumstances would temporarily be beyond Carson's control. It was strange to hear _Thomas_, who Jimmy regarded as quite an adult, treated as if he were so untrained and so in danger of making the most basic mistakes. Jimmy himself had felt like an adult for as long as he could remember having felt anything at all- and Thomas was even older than he.

Jimmy tried not to let his gaze drift to Thomas- lest he be washed over by memories, most of them less than work-appropriate- but he did look Thomas over surreptitiously as he passed back and forth. Thomas seemed in disarray- dark tints of purple color ringed his eyes, giving him a wan, sleepless appearance. Which was made more markedly pronounced, Jimmy observed, by the myriad cuts that still littered Thomas's face.

"They'll be coming with the new window-glass for those three windows in the North Library- in _five _days, and-" Mr. Carson was droning on, and Jimmy could not help himself- as Alfred turned away, with a valise, Jimmy caught Thomas's eye- and smiled- and Thomas, his face carefully neutral, kept the eye contact, for a moment.

"Yes, Mr. Carson," Thomas said, cutting Carson off mid-sentence. It was a testament to Carson's distraction that he did not chastise Thomas for the interruption, but said instead. "Yes. Well. I suppose I must admit... that I am rather anxious, Thomas."

"Understandably, sir," Thomas said, smoothly- but Jimmy was not permitted to linger, and so he heard no more of the conversation.

Jimmy caught one final glimpse of Lady Mary as the group left- it was hard _not _to glance at her, moving like a spectre within the midst of all the ordinary _living _people. Lady Mary kissed her mother goodbye- it looked as if Lady Grantham were near tears- and they shared a quiet exchange, not meant for the ears of family or footmen. Then Lady Mary turned, sweeping the air elegantly with her mourning dress- and went to the waiting motor. She sat in the back of the auto, with Edith and baby George- and turned her white face to the car's window, her eyes betraying nothing. Even as she sat Lady Mary held herself perfectly upright- but with an obvious effort- as if she were struggling against powerful winds- more powerful even than the hot breeze that today swept over the grounds. _Too bad for you,_ Jimmy thought, gazing at Lady Mary- though he felt no great emotion- but then he added, internally: _Good luck._

Mr. Carson looked them over one last time from the front, where he sat next to the driver. Jimmy could just make out the turn of Carson's dour old face over the chauffeur's shoulder, as the automobile pulled out- and Jimmy glanced over at Thomas, who wore an ill-concealed look of triumph on his battered visage, and stared fixedly at the car that took Mr. Carson away. There was no tenderness in Thomas's expression, as there had been the evening before-

_Stop,_ Jimmy commanded himself- and when he passed a mirror in the hall, he did not look himself over. Jimmy found that he was too afraid to see reflected back that strange man, the man he did not know- the foreigner in his thoughts who was full of weak and tedious emotion. The interloper who could think only: _Oh, Thomas-_ and think it over and over, maddeningly or in wistful tones, marking out a tempo underneath the rest of Jimmy's ideas and actions.

_If my mind and my body have betrayed me, _Jimmy thought, _then what am I? What remains?_

But the thought could not be permitted- Jimmy pushed it away, and tried to concentrate on his job.

At half-ten they cleared away the family's table and went downstairs. The contents of the breakfast had been greatly diminished- Mr. Crawley was dead, and Lady Edith had gone to London for a bit to be closer to her work, or something- and Lady Mary was to be for a while absent. Only Mr. Branson- and his daughter- remained with Lord and Lady Grantham. In a few weeks they would be joined by another relative- a Lady Rose. And O'Brien would leave, Jimmy added, feeling internal happiness. But for the time being family was reduced to three lonely travelers and an infant, suspended over Jimmy's head, in the house above- sharing vast amounts of empty space.

Thomas came in to the servant's hall at eleven, when they were all waiting for tea- and Jimmy did not miss Thomas's expression when everybody rose from their seats for him. Thomas paused for just a beat, as if to make sure they had really all stood- and then sat in Carson's chair.

"Lord and Lady Grantham are going to dinner at Lady Manville's," Thomas told the table at large- and Jimmy saw Thomas's lips quirk up, just barely- at the corners- when silence fell around the table as he opened his mouth. _Really enjoying being the butler, aren't you,_ Jimmy thought- but Jimmy looked attentively at Thomas while he spoke- though it was difficult for Jimmy to stare at Thomas and yet keep his mind from straying to places it should not.

"And I'll serve Mr. Branson's dinner myself," Thomas went on. Jimmy thought that Thomas somehow always managed to say '_Mr. Branson_'with a hint of irony. But not so much that he should earn a disapproving word from Mrs. Hughes. "So you may all have the night off after we clear five o'clock tea."

"Thank you, Mr. Barrow," Alfred said, happily- and he was echoed by the hallboys.

"I'm sorry, I can't speak for the women," Thomas added- and then he turned as much as his injured body would allow, and looked at Mrs. Hughes with a rather sweet expression- until she smiled, and nodded. "I suppose we can do the rest of the spare linens tomorrow, girls," Mrs. Hughes said- and the maids cheered.

"An evening off for everyone except me," O'Brien said- and Jimmy- who realized now that perhaps he had been staring excessively at Mr. Barrow- dragged his eyes away, to observe the witch, keeping her dark country at the end of the table. "I'll still have to look after her Ladyship."

"I'll do it," Anna volunteered. "I haven't anything to do. And Mr. Bates will have to wait up for Lord Grantham, anyhow-"

"No, I'll do it," O'Brien said, curtly- and Jimmy turned back, and gave Thomas a sidelong _look_- which Thomas returned. _She's a pleasant one, and not at all contrite,_ Jimmy thought, glad for the thousandth time that one day soon O'Brien would no longer be in the country at _all_.

_Have fun in India,_ Jimmy told O'Brien, silently._ Don't get caught in the sun and die of heat exhaustion, or anything. That'd be an awful pity._

Jimmy wanted a chance to speak with Thomas away from everybody else- but he didn't get it- and he was plunged into a general malaise by the time that he and Alfred were laying out the table for the family's luncheon.

"Grapefruit spoons, where are the grapefruit spoons?" Jimmy said, annoyed. "You lout. Where's your head? Already off in the village with Ivy?"

"I'll get 'em, sorry," Alfred said- still without altering the stupid look of happiness on his face- and exited the room- and Jimmy stared at the set-up sideboard. Something was wrong with it. "Bouillon cups, oyster plates-" Jimmy said, surveying the contents.

"Those should be in the warming oven," Thomas said- and Jimmy jumped- he hadn't even heard Thomas come into the room. And now Thomas was standing beside him. It was sudden- and Thomas standing so close, looking at Jimmy- and smelling, finally, of his usual aftershave- was disconcerting. Jimmy abruptly shook his head, trying to keep his poise. "Well?" Jimmy asked, when Thomas only regarded him for a moment longer. "Aren't you going to measure my place settings?"

Thomas scoffed. "Y'really think that Lord Grantham will notice if the glasses are a quarter inch off from the plates?"

"You don't?" Jimmy asked, his eyebrows drawing up of their own accord.

"O'_course_ not, _they _wouldn't notice in a century of meals," Thomas replied. "I don't believe in doing unnecessary work. Though," Thomas added, smirking- "I'll take full precautions for every dinner the Dowager Countess comes to."

"She would notice, at that," Jimmy said, smirking in return. Now they were standing close to one another, both smiling- and Jimmy had to turn away. He collected the errant china, and from him Thomas took the plates, so that Jimmy only had to manage the cups. Their fingers brushed- and Jimmy kept himself from pulling back abruptly. Purely so that he would not break anything.

"It weren't my fault anyways," Jimmy said, as they walked back downstairs. "It's _Alfred_. He-"

"He's not so bad," Thomas said magnanimously, bumping his shoulder against Jimmy's- Jimmy could not tell if the touch was purposeful or not. "He's learning."

That was a marked change from Thomas's stance on Alfred a year ago- and Jimmy scowled at him. "Aren't you in the loveliest mood today, Mr. Barrow," Jimmy said, dryly, as they started down the stairs.

"Yes," Thomas said. "Because I-" But Alfred was coming back up the stairs with the spoons, and Thomas closed his mouth- which meant whatever Thomas was going to say had been about the previous night. Or the situation as a whole. _There is no situation,_ Jimmy told himself. _Everything is normal._ But things were slipping further and further beyond Jimmy's control- he was no fool, and he could see it happening, sure as sunrise. _I don't even recall what I thought was doing with the journal to begin with,_ Jimmy thought. There had been a _plan_, of course- some ultimate goal- but now Jimmy was far past the point of planning. _I have to get control,_ Jimmy told himself. _I need to be in control of this situation. _Too many times since he had come to Downton had Jimmy felt as if he were at loose ends. _Bloody mad place,_ Jimmy thought, frowning.

The upstairs took luncheon- at which Jimmy and Alfred served and Thomas stood, looking exhausted and as if he were in pain.

"Two footman serving at a meal for three people?" Jimmy asked Thomas, when they were clearing- out of earshot of Alfred, of course. It was hardly an appropriate thing to say to your superior. It was, however, a perfectly acceptable thing to say to the man who had slept in your bed. Not that it was acceptable to have a man sleep in your bed.

But Thomas only nodded, looking pleased. "Thought I'd do it all very nice for a while, so that they don't get the impression everything's falling to bits without Mr. Carson."

"Clever," Jimmy said- and it was on his lips to ask Thomas to tell him a bit of his poetry- but then Jimmy remembered that they were in the _dining room_ and it was not exactly an appropriate moment. _Later,_ Jimmy thought.

At half five Lord and Lady Grantham departed- and then everybody else left the house at once. "You don't want to come?" Alfred asked, looking at Jimmy doubtfully. Jimmy shook his head. "It's too hot to do anything," Jimmy muttered- it was a poor excuse, not thought out as well as his usual lies, and he knew it. Alfred gave him a look of mild bewilderment- but Jimmy only shrugged, and turned away. _Maybe I should go,_ Jimmy thought-_ Go and clear my head-_ but then he caught a glimpse of Thomas- walking into Carson's office- and Jimmy knew that he would have to stay, because there was a good chance that he and Thomas could be alone together.

Thomas came out of the office as everyone was on the way out the door, to say, in his sternest impression of Mr. Carson: "I want everybody back by half-eleven. And if you're too ill to work tomorrow, it'll come out of your wages."

"And have a _good_ time," Mrs. Hughes said, in an entirely different tone, at Thomas's elbow.

Everyone made acquiescent sounds, and hurried away, down the gravel drive. Mrs. Hughes- much to Jimmy's astonishment- sat down at the table with a _book_. Jimmy could not recall- in more than a year of knowing her- ever having seen Mrs. Hughes partaking in any kind of leisure activity. _When the cat's away,_ Jimmy thought. Beside Mrs. Hughes's chair, Thomas stretched, with a pained grimace.

"You didn't sleep, I gather," Mrs. Hughes said dryly- not looking up from her book. For a second Jimmy thought she was _implying_ something- or speaking to _him_- and he almost jumped out of his own skin- but she was addressing Thomas, who shrugged and yawned, with ultimate nonchalance.

"No. I told you I was too excited," Thomas answered. "I'm going to get in a few hours before I serve Mr. Branson's dinner." Over the top of her head Thomas cast a significant look at Jimmy- and Jimmy looked back at him, willing his own face not to give anything away.

"What about you, James?" Mrs. Hughes inquired, as Thomas turned, and left the room. "You didn't want to go out with the others?"

Jimmy shook his head, keeping his voice light. "It's too hot. And I have some reading to catch up on."

"As do I," Mrs. Hughes said, smiling again- and she turned back to her open book- and so Jimmy figured he was dismissed, and slipped away.

As soon as Jimmy stepped into the men's hallway Thomas opened his bedroom door and peered out. "Jimmy," Thomas said, "Would you like to-"

"I'll be right _there_," Jimmy said, trying not to snap at him- and Thomas nodded, and shut his door. In his own room Jimmy undid his collar with a sigh of relief- and stripped, and put on his everyday clothes- omitting a tie and jacket. _My book-_ Jimmy thought, wanting to read the poem about the lovers in the house again- he could not fathom what it meant- well, he could understand the _story_ it told- but he could not understand what relation the poem had to _Thomas_- if any at all.

But that was avoidance, and Jimmy knew it- and so he looked into his mirror, and stared himself firmly down. People might laugh at his vanity- but Jimmy had always thought that looking at oneself was very important- as a way to keep in touch with the _reality _of your own being. There was something to be said for knowing that it was _yourself_ you saw. Jimmy had always kept an image with him, as a sort of- _religious _idea: the thought of a primitive man, from way back in the past- looking into a pool of water, somewhere- and being the first person, the very _first_- to recognize himself in the face that peered back at him. And from that had come, for all people, the idea of who you _were_, in a larger sense. In connection to the universe. And thus, humanity.

Perhaps that had been why the _Narcissus _poem had stung Jimmy so very much: as if Thomas had known precisely where to cut him. The boy who wasted away to nothing- and met death, while staring at his own beauty- a story Jimmy had always detested. _It isn't shallowness._ Jimmy thought- but the whole chain of thought was _still_ in avoidance of the larger issue- and so Jimmy met his own eyes, and cleared his throat, and said aloud: "Time for some honesty."

Jimmy's mirror-self nodded, though he looked rather out-of-sorts. Jimmy pitied him. "So you _want_ him," Jimmy went on, lowering his voice to a whisper- and then speaking only in his head, for fear that Thomas would somehow overhear him. _Fine. That's fine. It doesn't change anything. And you could've done worse. He loves you. Won't betray you. So you're _safe_- if you want to get it out of your system. Yes. That's right. He's in love with you, pining away for you with his soppy self, isn't he? _It was true, as far as Jimmy could ascertain, and the man in the mirror gave him a stiff nod._ But this business with the trembling hands and the dreaming of him and the poetry in your thoughts- that has to be gotten firmly in hand. He's the one dying of love- you should be in control. If you can only take charge of the situation-_

"Then everything will be _fine_," Jimmy said, tightly. His reflection nodded back at him, quite firmly, and Jimmy turned away, and went through his door, to Thomas's room.

But Jimmy's _control _was almost shattered by the surreal world that met him when he opened Thomas's door- the light was deep ochre, and hazy- and the two angled windows in the ceiling- and the one on the wall- had been thrown open. Today the air was breezy- not unbearably still as it had been- but the wind that blew was _hot_- and the curtains of the bottom window- and the hanging shirts- and even the _towels-_ swayed in the heated air, giving the entire room a feeling of movement. On the floor a discarded newspaper lay trapped under the leg of the desk chair, and the pages of it fluttered along with the ebb and flow of the wind, making hushing sounds. The room was saturated with smoke- Thomas was smoking his cigarettes end-to-end, apparently- and everywhere hung the smell of sweet tobacco- and under that, the scent of Thomas's aftershave. Thomas was reclining on his cot, as if he had just sat down- wearing only his cotton pants, no trousers and no shirt- and Thomas looked up at Jimmy when he came in, his face unguarded and full of happiness.

It seemed like another _world_- and Jimmy blinked- and shook his head. Thomas's poetry whispered through his mind, calling up other realms of similar feeling. _The porches and the corridors bewitched him,_ Jimmy thought, standing very still-_ and everywhere, the blackness of her hair- within the arboretum or the kitchen, he felt that she was always, _always _there_-

_No_. No, that would not do. Jimmy took a deep breath, calming himself inwardly- and moved to the chair- not the desk chair but the red-draped armchair- which he dragged over to the bed unceremoniously. "It's like an oven in here," Jimmy said, when he'd sat- and Thomas nodded in agreement. "I like it," Thomas offered. "The heat. And the breeze." At the end of his sentence Thomas smiled at Jimmy again- his normal haughty expression folding into sweetness- and Jimmy smiled back, though he felt tense. _You're holding all the cards,_ Jimmy assured himself. _Well. Except for your lucky deck. _"You've really not slept at all?" Jimmy asked, curiously- and helped himself to one of Thomas's cigarettes, from the pack that he'd left out, on the foot of the bed.

"Not a bit," Thomas replied.

"May I have the lighter, please?" Jimmy asked- and Thomas pulled the lighter from the far side of the mattress- and lit Jimmy's cigarette for him, although Jimmy held out his hand, ready to do it himself.

"I still don't get to use it?" Jimmy asked, and Thomas nodded. "Can't chance you takin' it. This lighter saved my life, y'know."

"Tell me how," Jimmy commanded, instantly filled with curiosity- but Thomas shook his head, and did not make an answer on the subject. That was another thing, Jimmy observed, sourly. Thomas was forever refusing to divulge personal information- and yet he professed to _adore_ Jimmy- so why was he so- _closemouthed_, so- essentially untrusting? _He doesn't know if I'm worthy of his trust yet,_ Jimmy decided. Jimmy wanted to be _angry _at Thomas's lack of trust in him- but then he had an image of Thomas dispensing advice to him, after he'd first come to work at Downton. Back when Jimmy had been engaged in ludicrous competition with Alfred over who was better at their job. _"These things can be managed,"_ Thomas said, in Jimmy's memory. _"But not by losing your temper."_

That was a good line of thinking- clever, really- like everything else about Thomas- and Jimmy swallowed his annoyance, and tried a different tack.

"I had dreams of my father last night," Jimmy lied, affecting what he hoped was a vulnerable expression. In fact he had slept more deeply the night before than he could remember having slept in ages. "He was disappointed in me, I think," Jimmy added, keeping his tone light- but with a touch of fabricated unhappiness in it, barely hinted at. _I hope that was convincing,_ Jimmy thought, searching Thomas's face- and then glancing away, as if uncomfortable with revealing so much about himself. Thomas wore an odd look- Jimmy could not quite decipher it- but after a pause he decided that it was sympathy- and then Thomas reached down, and gripped Jimmy's knee in his hand, squeezing it.

"D'ya-" Jimmy paused, artfully, and rubbed the back of his own neck. "D'ya think _your _family would've been disappointed with you? If they'd known what y'were- what you're _like_?"

It worked like a charm- Thomas patted Jimmy's knee, and then tapped his own chin with his index finger. There was no refusal on Thomas's part to speak- Jimmy had rendered refusal impossible with his own false forthrightness.

"They did know about me," Thomas said, slowly. "But they weren't disappointed. Worried, maybe."

"They _knew_?" Jimmy asked, leaning forward. The red-blanketed armchair came to rest just under the bottom edge of the cot, and when Jimmy sat fully upright, his eyes were level with Thomas's chin- but Thomas tilted his face downwards, and nodded. "Just so," Thomas answered- and he ran his injured hand- on which he wore no glove, as a concession to the heat- through Jimmy's hair- but Jimmy caught his palm, and pulled it down, to examine the scar. Thomas bore this scrutiny, looking uncomfortable, until Jimmy ceased his study of the old wound, and entwined their fingers together. "That's not so bad that you have to _cover_ it," Jimmy said. His own palm felt clammy in the heat- but Thomas's hands were dry, and his pale fingers wrapped around Jimmy's hand in a way Jimmy found oddly familiar- as if they had clasped hands a hundred times.

"It used to be," Thomas said- but Jimmy couldn't wait- and so he asked, as politely as he knew how- "Won't you tell me how your parents knew you were... that way?"

"Hmmm," Thomas said, taking a long drag from his cigarette with the hand that wasn't held in Jimmy's own. "I gave it away when I was young. Really quite young."

"How? And how young?" Jimmy pressed, unable to tear his eyes from Thomas's.

"Seven or so," Thomas said, nodding at Jimmy's expression of shock.

"But-" Jimmy sputtered. "_How_?"

"Nothing _sinister_, I promise you," Thomas said hurriedly, clearly in response to how taken aback Jimmy was. "I just..." Thomas laughed. "Did your parents read you stories when you were little?"

"Well. Yes, sometimes," Jimmy said. "I don't follow."

"My parents read to me all the _time_," Thomas went on, gesturing with his cigarette. A gust of hot wind hit against the ember that burned at the tip of the cigarette, and swept a clump of ash right up into the air, scattering it into many parts, and bearing those parts away.

Thomas's bare chest was distracting to Jimmy- he didn't know why he should find it so _pleasing_, to look at, even with all the bruises that littered Thomas's skin. _No. You're in control_, Jimmy reminded himself, firmly- and he nodded at Thomas, indicating he should go on.

"They read me everything," Thomas said- stubbing out his cigarette in the adjacent ashtray, and then ticking off books on his free hand. "_Robinson Crusoe_, _Gulliver's Travels, The Swiss Family Robinson_- all the old Greek stuff- myths- _The Iliad-_ The Brothers Grimm- an' Shakespeare, and- everything. Whatever they were reading, even if I didn't understand it. My father read me the newspaper every day, while he had breakfast- and sometimes I could persuade him to read to me even in his workshop. But my very favorite was Hans Christian Andersen."

"Oh, but those stories are _miserable_," Jimmy said. "What about 'The Fir Tree'? Where the tree _dies _at the end? Or the one about the girl who freezes to death on Christmas Eve-"

"Me mum thought them awfully morbid, too," Thomas said, chuckling. "But I liked them. Especially the one about the mermaid." Thomas said it casually enough, but Jimmy suspected that, if properly induced, Thomas could have recited the entirety of the story from memory, right on the spot.

"All children have a favorite story, though," Jimmy said. "I don't see how-"

"Well one day when I had begged my mother to read it again- it was snowing out, and we were in the sitting room, going through books and things- my mother always had a project-"

Thomas was lost, now, Jimmy saw- not just repeating a story to get Jimmy out of his hair, but actually _lost_ in reminiscing. _Perfect,_ Jimmy thought. _Now tell me things unreservedly._

"Yes?" Jimmy asked, gently.

"I told her I that I was in love with the prince, too, on account of how loyal he was, y'know, even to a girl he only _thought_ had saved him- even if it was the wrong girl. And he was so lovely- I understood why the mermaid _and_ the princess loved him, and... an' why-" Thomas paused, shaking his head. "I didn't say any of that, though. I was a child. I think I only said I wanted to marry the prince."

Jimmy laughed- he could not help it- and Thomas laughed too, a touch ruefully. "The poor woman," Jimmy said. "You probably about did her in."

"Nah," Thomas said, shaking his head. "Only she told me that was all _well_ and _fine_, but for heaven's sakes not to mention it to my father. She said I could _think_ about loving the prince, but until I was older I should make very careful to _say_ I loved the princess."

"Oh," Jimmy said, surprised. "Really?"

"Yes," Thomas responded. "I asked her why but she said she'd talk to me about it _when I was older_, and so forth, until I gave up."

"Did you do as she asked?" Jimmy questioned, curiously, and Thomas snorted.

"O'_course_ not," Thomas answered, as if it were too obvious a question to bear answering. "I repeated the same phrase to my father the very next day- we were in his workshop- just to see why my mother had warned me not to."

"Oh," Jimmy said, feeling an unwelcome surge of anxiety on the behalf of child-Thomas. "And what did he say?"

"He grew quite stern. And he said it was all _well_, and _fine_, but for heaven's sakes not to mention it to my mother," Thomas intoned, with a laugh in his voice and a smirk on his lips.

"He didn't!" Jimmy said, leaning forward in amusement. He and Thomas still had their hands clasped- Jimmy's right in Thomas's left- and Jimmy finished the cigarette he held in his other hand, and dropped it in the ashtray.

"He did," Thomas returned. "And he also gave me a great series of lectures- _years_ of lectures, really- on how I _must not tell_ anybody that I felt that way, because the world could be a dangerous place. He said someday when I was grown I'd get my prince, but I'd have to be careful about it."

"He _said_ that to you? Your _father_?" Jimmy asked, unable to believe it, but Thomas nodded again, as if it were not so remarkable. "If he was alive now I can't even imagine how he'd be. He'd probably get himself arrested trying to find me an eligible young man," Thomas said, and grinned, at the idea. Jimmy grinned, too- but then sobered. "You must miss them," Jimmy said, after a beat- and Thomas bobbed his head in agreement. "I wish they'd lived longer. There ought to be more people like that in the world," Thomas said- and for a second his eyes were far away- and sad.

Perhaps that was part of the mystery of Thomas, Jimmy mused, fascinated. Though it would have made more sense for him to hold his head down in shame, at those things that made him different, Thomas had pride in buckets- it showed in myriad ways, as if he couldn't hide his own feelings of self-worth. And it was because Thomas had been _told _he was worthy, by people who had believed it- though they had known he was not like everybody else.

Jimmy felt fine- in _control_, and happy, and relaxed- but then Thomas fixed him with a scrutinizing look, and asked: "What did'ya dream about your own father, then?"

"I- uh- had fitful dreams," Jimmy said, vaguely. "I woke myself up, turning on the bed. They were quite bad."

"S'funny," Thomas said, his eyes still not leaving Jimmy's face. "I stayed up all night, right next to you, and it _seemed _as if you slept like the dead."

_My god, he knows I'm lying, he knew the whole time,_ Jimmy thought- and he could not control the blush that rose in his cheeks, though he tried to will it away.

"It must've been after you left," Jimmy said, tightly- but Thomas leaned forward, and bent down, looking at Jimmy with amusement. "You think I'm so dull-witted," Thomas said, softly.

"N-_no_, not at all," Jimmy stammered. "I really _did- _it's just that I- _mmph_-"

Thomas pressed his mouth to Jimmy's, even as Jimmy was grasping about for an explanation- and Jimmy made an indignant sound against his lips- but Thomas's mouth was so _soft_- and Jimmy felt himself surrendering to it, felt heat pooling low down in his stomach. _Yes_, _just like that_, Jimmy thought- and Thomas ran his tongue over Jimmy's lower lip. _No, remember control,_ Jimmy said, internally- and pulled himself away from Thomas suddenly, leaning far back in the armchair.

"No, don't do that," Thomas said, his brow creasing as Jimmy pulled back. Thomas stroked a thumb along the edge of Jimmy's jaw, and Jimmy shivered at the feeling of it, trying to gather his wits.

"I-" Jimmy shook his head, trying to think of how he could manage the situation. "I want to do something," Jimmy said, after a beat. Jimmy's heartbeat was beginning to quicken, his brain deliriously anticipating the betrayal of his body. The breeze ruffled papers on Thomas's desk, held down by the half-empty bottle of whiskey that Thomas was always offering to him. "But first let's have a drink," Jimmy said, unsteadily. "I think I'll finally take you up on it."

"I haven't got a cup," Thomas said- but Jimmy rose to his feet, to spare Thomas from having to do it, and picked the bottle up off the desk. Papers flew everywhere- a intense gust of wind had pushed through the windows just as Jimmy lifted the bottle- and the room was bathed in letters, and bills, and documents- evidence of Thomas's personal life, and of his new duties. For a protracted moment the winds went on, and the papers flew about, like impossibly large and badly-worked snowflakes. Thomas leapt to his feet with an agility that probably pained him- and he and Jimmy grasped for the papers, lest they be blown off to lands unknown. Thomas ran for the window on the wall like a dart, and slammed it shut- cutting off some of the wind.

"Sorry, sorry," Jimmy said, laughing, when they had finally gathered up most of the storm of documents- and he faced Thomas, who had his hands full of now-crumpled papers. "S'alright," Thomas said, lifting his hands away- and he leaned in, and kissed Jimmy, very lightly, on the corner of his mouth. Jimmy's lips tingled where Thomas's mouth had been- and Jimmy looked away, so that he wouldn't be caught staring at Thomas's bare chest. It seemed impossibly risqué that Thomas should be so undressed in the sunlight of an early summer's evening. _But to see him, like that,_ Jimmy thought, swallowing around a lump in his throat- _it's very-_

"Here, put them in here," Thomas said, unceremoniously throwing open a drawer and stuffing handfuls of papers into it. Thomas smiled as he did it. Jimmy figured that Thomas was probably a bit punchy from lack of sleep- though he had been consuming coffee intensively all day. _Exhaustion, that's probably why he told me so much,_ Jimmy thought- but he joined Thomas, cramming papers into the drawer. Their hands bumped, and Thomas caught one of Jimmy's hands, prying it open, to kiss his palm. "_I'll _be your prince," Jimmy said, in mock-serious tones, as Thomas kissed his hand- and Thomas broke out in laugher, bending over- and Jimmy laughed, too- a little at first and then with profound amusement, his body shaking, until he had to wipe tears of mirth from his eyes. Thomas composed himself before Jimmy- and threw open the window in the wall, doubling the breeze that made its way into the room. "Oh, the door," Thomas said- and Jimmy nodded, and snapped off a salute, quick as you please- which made Thomas laugh again- and then Jimmy put the desk chair under the doorhandle.

"Poor man's lock assembled, sir," Jimmy said, in his best army voice.

"Excellent, soldier," Thomas replied, trying to school his face into a grim expression- but his mouth kept ticking upwards- "report directly to the bed."

"Sorry sir, I must first report to the whiskey bottle," Jimmy said- and found the bottle where he'd left it. For some reason Jimmy's heart was racing as if they had done far more than gather up papers- and he collected himself as he took a long sip- feeling the whiskey burn down his throat- a more bearable heat than the heat of the day. "Mm," Jimmy said, when he was finished- and he offered Thomas the bottle. "I can't, I'm working," Thomas said- but Jimmy shook his head. "I'll serve Mr. Branson. He won't care. You haven't even slept."

Thomas raised an eyebrow, looking mildly bewildered. "You're volunteering... to _work_ for me?" Thomas asked, after a long and incredulous pause.

"I don't see why it's so hard to _believe_," Jimmy muttered, turning his face to the floor.

"I _know_ you hate extra work," Thomas said, wonderingly- and Jimmy cleared his throat, and turned to the vanity. "Can I see those earrings again?" Jimmy asked, lightly- but Thomas was at his elbow. "I can't let you do it, anyhow, it looks a bit lazy on my part," Thomas said, putting his hand on Jimmy's elbow. "But it's kind of you, Jimmy, to offer."

"Don't call me kind," Jimmy said, shaking his head. "Just show me those earrings again."

"You can't be _serious_," Thomas said- but he did what he was told immediately, to Jimmy's utter surprise. Thomas walked over to the closet door- and Jimmy had a chance to study Thomas's shirtless back. _Handsome, he's so handsome_, Jimmy thought, and took another drink from the bottle that Thomas had refused. _There. I can admit it. It's fine. Just as long as I can stay in control of whatever- whatever happens. And not lose my head about it._

Thomas bent over- stiffly- and Jimmy could not see what he was doing- but then he reappeared, holding the box that contained the blue earrings. "Are my lucky cards in there as well?" Jimmy asked, craning his head curiously- but Thomas shook his head- and shut the closet door.

"Here, your majesty," Thomas said, opening the box- and he held the earrings out to Jimmy- they moved in the breeze, sending points of blue light all over the room, in an odd kaleidoscopic effect.

"If you take these I'll be very unhappy," Thomas said, frowning- but Jimmy picked them up- trading them with Thomas, who took the whiskey bottle- and Jimmy walked to the lamp in the far corner. "I won't take them," Jimmy said- and hung the earrings on the top edge of the lampshade- so that they caught a patch of sun, and threw their spangles of blue light over the walls and ceiling.

"Perfect," Jimmy said, with satisfaction- and he turned, and went to sit on the bed. Thomas had apparently forgotten his own rule about not drinking before he served dinner. Jimmy watched him take a sip from the neck of the whiskey bottle, tilting back his dark head- and then leaning forward again. "Hmm," Thomas said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand- and then he walked over to Jimmy, and sat beside him. They sat so close together that they could both rest their feet on the armchair- and Jimmy kicked off his shoes, with a sigh.

"You said you wanted to _try_ something," Thomas prompted, handing Jimmy the bottle.

"I- ah- yes," Jimmy answered, setting the bottle on the floor. "I do."

"Alright," Thomas said, affecting an expression of bravado. "What is it, then?" He looked at Jimmy questioningly- and Jimmy firmed up his resolve, and took a breath, and said: "You sit there. Against the wall. God, lean up _against _something, it hurts to look at you." That could be taken a number of ways- and Jimmy cleared his throat, as Thomas shoved back, sitting against the pillows. "Right," Jimmy said, when Thomas stilled, and looked to him for further instruction. Jimmy laughed- and undid the buttons on his shirt, shrugging off his braces- and forcing himself to ignore the irritating fact that his hands had begun to shake. But they were not trembling _very _badly. "That whiskey does wonders," Jimmy murmured, aloud- and then bit his lip. He hadn't meant to give voice to the thought- but Thomas only smiled- and reached forward- and Jimmy stopped him with an outstretched palm. "N-no," Jimmy said. "Stay there and don't move."

"Aye, sir," Thomas said, raising his eyebrows- but he stayed where he was, only shifting his legs slightly.

Jimmy stripped off his own shirt- it caught in a gust of air, blowing out for a moment like a phantom on the breeze. _And drafts that blew like ghosts across the space made papers flutter in his sitting-room, _Jimmy thought- and recalled both the storm of papers and Thomas whispering the phrase in his ear. "Hmm," Jimmy said- and saw Thomas's eyes widen slightly- as he took off his own trousers. In the window the red curtains blew straight out into the room, like twin banners.

"There, now we match," Jimmy said, with more confidence than he felt, when he equalled Thomas in state of undress- and he shoved forward, sitting cross-legged, so that he was facing Thomas, as close as he could get. As soon as Jimmy stilled Thomas's hands were on him- one set of fingertips tracing his lower back, the other running along his chest- and Thomas was about to kiss him- but Jimmy grabbed Thomas's wrists. 'No," Jimmy said, shaking his head emphatically. "Stay _still_. Put your hands in your lap. Please," Jimmy added, in an undertone.

"Alright, Jimmy," Thomas said- evenly- but Jimmy could see that a pretty red color had risen to Thomas's face.

A truism occurred to Jimmy- that people sometimes do the very things they would like to be done to them in return- and he lifted one of Thomas's obedient hands- the right- to his mouth, and kissed Thomas's cool palm, pressing his lips to the heel of Thomas's hand, and then his wrist. "_Ah_," Thomas said, immediately- it was more of an exhalation than anything- but Jimmy smiled against Thomas's skin- though his own heart was hammering wildly, in a combination of fright and desire. _I'm in control,_ Jimmy assured himself- and he glanced up, to see that Thomas was staring down at him, wide eyed, with bright spots of color- in his cheeks and lips- highlighting his pallor.

"Hold still," Jimmy said- and kissed the tips of Thomas's fingers, unable to meet Thomas's eyes as he did it.

"Nnn, yes," Thomas said, in an undertone. Jimmy glanced up at him, briefly- Thomas's left arm had come up- but he did not attempt to touch Jimmy- only laying his hand over his own eyes, as if to look was too much to bear. _Yes, alright,_ Jimmy thought, trying to ignore the way his own body responded to the sight of Thomas, like _that_- and Jimmy shut his eyes entirely- and pressed his lips to Thomas's index finger, drawing it between his teeth and into his mouth. The act felt so intimate that it was almost laughable- and Jimmy felt a painful sense of anticipation- as if Thomas would ridicule him. But Thomas hissed, instead, his voice issuing unevenly from between his parted lips. "_Ah_-alright-" Thomas said, sitting up, his left hand dropping from his eyes- and he looked at Jimmy- who drew his teeth lightly up Thomas's finger. _"Mmph,_ th-that feels good," Thomas muttered- and Jimmy sat fully upright, taking his mouth away from Thomas's hand. Jimmy's heart stuttered wildly away from him, seeking escape from the prison of his bones- and Jimmy grabbed Thomas's injured hand, kissing the palm of it in turn. "Hhn, yes," Thomas said- and Jimmy looked down, and saw that Thomas had an erection.

"Hold still," Jimmy warned Thomas, again- when the other man seemed about to move- and Thomas nodded, and ceased his movement, shifting only slightly in place as he sat.

"I _should_ make you recite poetry right now," Jimmy said- trying to keep his tone casual, and missing- his voice broke and trailed off into nothing by the end of the sentence. Jimmy ran his hands down Thomas's bare chest- more boldly than he had done the night before- taking a breath at the feel of Thomas's skin under his fingers. Thomas's chest rose and fell quickly against Jimmy's touch- and he could see that the skin of Thomas's neck- and his chest- was lightly flushed. A spangle of blue light, cast by the earrings, shone under Thomas's collarbone- moving slightly, as the earring moved slightly with the wind- and Jimmy traced the outline of the little fleck of light- and then bent forward, to press his lips to the spot. Thomas's skin tasted like- Jimmy couldn't place it- but something about it filled his head, until there was nothing else- and Jimmy pressed his tongue to the spot, making Thomas's body move slowly underneath him. Jimmy could feel his own arousal- between his legs his prick was throbbing- an ache for every rapid beat of his heart- and Jimmy wanted to press _against_ Thomas, and let Thomas put his _hands_ on him- but he did not give in to the desire- instead pulling his lips away from Thomas's skin.

"N-no, god, don't make me recite anything," Thomas said, quietly, as Jimmy sat back up. "I couldn't right now-" Thomas muttered- and Jimmy kissed his mouth- parting his lips against Thomas's- and Thomas kissed back, moving his mouth against Jimmy's. "No, hold _still,_" Jimmy said, breaking away, with a shaky breath, as Thomas made to bring his arms up- and at his words Thomas dropped his arms again, studying Jimmy with eyes struck dark by desire.

"Thank you," Jimmy said, as calmly as he could manage- and he brushed his palms against Thomas's pants-covered legs- moving past his knees, and up his thighs- and Jimmy watched Thomas's breath hitch, and his hips shift.

"Mmm, _ah_, Jimmy," Thomas said, as Jimmy rubbed slow circles onto Thomas's thighs, applying some pressure to the muscles with his fingertips. The act seemed wildly illicit- though they had already done _worse_- or better- but Jimmy felt strange- touching Thomas as he imagined being touched. Or as Thomas had already touched him. Still it was as fascinating as it was frightening- to watch Thomas struggle to keep composure, to keep his hands off of Jimmy, because Jimmy had requested it- and all the time Thomas's hips made little motions and he shifted on the cot, barely perceptibly. But Thomas _had_ to shift, Jimmy thought, because the pleasure was so intense- the pleasure of them being _together_. Jimmy watched Thomas's face- how his eyes opened- and then fluttered shut, at the sensation of Jimmy's touch, as if Thomas were trapped in a sort of limbo.

_You want me,_ Jimmy thought- and he felt reassured in the thought- and he moved his left hand up a bit more, to rest over Thomas's erection, where it pushed against the fabric of his pants.

"_Ah-_yes, yes," Thomas said, nodding. "That feels very- _ah_-" Jimmy watched as Thomas shut his eyes tightly- just at the pressure of Jimmy's hand- and then Jimmy ran his thumb over the outlined tip of Thomas's hardon- just barely, against the fabric, feeling his own heart skip a beat as he did it.

"Ah, y-yes, like that," Thomas said- his eyes had opened wide, when Jimmy touched the head of his prick- and Jimmy repeated the motion. Thomas looked down at the juncture of his legs- as if he could not believe that Jimmy's hand was there. "Does that feel good?" Jimmy asked, trying to get a deep breath- and Thomas nodded, and tilted his head back, for a moment, against the headboard. "Nnngh,_ oh, I_-" Thomas said, in a broken undertone- and Jimmy stroked his fingers up and down the shaft of Thomas's cock, biting his own bottom lip so that he would keep a clear mind.

"Does that-"

"Feel good, yes, it feels very good," Thomas said, though his teeth- and Thomas shifted, moving his legs slightly apart. Jimmy ran his hands over the entirety of Thomas's prick, tracing it through the fabric- and Thomas let out a shuddering sigh. "Please let me put my hands on you," Thomas said, in a voice so compromised that his tone came out almost completely flat- and Jimmy felt a moment of reassurance amidst all his anxiety. Thomas would not touch him unless Jimmy gave the word. _He'll do anything I ask,_ Jimmy thought- and the thought made him ache- and he felt oddly- _safe_- for a moment- but even that feeling was swept away by the heady desire that Jimmy was consumed with. Jimmy's stomach twisted when he squeezed Thomas's erection lightly and was rewarded with a moan- Thomas making a wordless sound in response to his hand. Thomas's mouth was open, as if he was about to speak- but he did not speak- and his brow furrowed intensively, as if he were concentrating very hard on something.

"D-does _that _feel good?" Jimmy asked again- and Thomas said something indecipherable into the back of his own hand. "Mmm, yes," Jimmy replied, unsteadily, feeling the pressure of arousal between his own legs- the intensity of it as acute as Thomas's desire seemed to be, and he touched Thomas with a firmer hand, working his fingers around Thomas's confined hardon. "Hn. Oh," Thomas said- and he leaned back, gasping. "Ah, _J-Jimmy_, oh, that's very nice-"

"Yes," Jimmy said, nodding unsteadily. "I want to do it to you. What you did to me."

"_Ah_, yes, that's fine," Thomas said- and Jimmy took a breath- and dropped his hands from Thomas's erection- to tug at the edge of his pants. "Take these off," Jimmy said, feeling so anxious suddenly that he could barely get the words out- but Thomas nodded, his breath coming in big, uneven gasps- and Thomas shifted, hissing as he pulled his pants carefully down, and then sitting faced towards Jimmy, with his legs folded. Thomas's cock was so hard it jutted almost straight up. The summer light hid nothing- Jimmy could see every angle on Thomas's naked body- and for a moment he thought he simply would not be able to move- that he would remain still, paralyzed by nerves. But then Thomas looked at him, his gaze heavy with lust- and Jimmy kissed him again. "Let- let me _touch_ you, please," Thomas said, against his mouth- but Jimmy shook his head _no_.

"I'm g-going to do it to you like I do it to my-_myself_," Jimmy whispered, shakily, into Thomas's ear- and he curled his left hand around Thomas's prick. There was a drop of fluid on the tip of it- and Jimmy spread it around, with his thumb- looking down at Thomas's hardness, wrapped around by his fingers. _"Ahhh,_ god," Thomas said- and Jimmy pressed their foreheads together, feeling déjà vu that only added to his arousal.

"You feel good in my hand," Jimmy said- and tightened his fingers, to illustrate the point- and Thomas groaned, pushing up against Jimmy's hand. _"Oh, g-god, _yes, oh-" Thomas said- and he broke the rules Jimmy had laid out- leaning forward, and capturing Jimmy's mouth in a kiss of marked intensity. Jimmy shivered at the sensation of Thomas's tongue inside his mouth- and he pulled back, still moving his hand.

"You should tell me the poem that starts- uh- _'And when he sleeps, strange places he does go-'_," Jimmy said. He meant it as a joke- to leaven the sense of great _importance_ that had somehow settled over him- because obviously Thomas was far beyond the point of remembering rhyme schemes. But Thomas's eyes were closed, and he could not see the expression on Jimmy's face- and, to Jimmy's astonishment, Thomas nodded, and began to speak.

"And- when- he- _ah_- sleeps strange places he d-does _go_," Thomas said, rocking into Jimmy's touch. "His mind- his _mind_ trips loosely from a coil wound- _ah-_ ah, oh, _god-_ the st-stars extinguish, blow by- _ah_- solemn _blow_- and- _ah_- and-"

"And in the clearing, snowfall all around-" Jimmy supplied, watching Thomas's mouth move. So intense was Jimmy's concentration on Thomas's face as he spoke that Jimmy forgot, for a moment, to move his hand- and Thomas made a sound, and moved his hips in slow circles, seeking out more of Jimmy's touch. "Ah, _Jimmy,_ please,_"_ Thomas said raggedly, opening his eyes.

"Sorry," Jimmy whispered, taking a deep breath- and he moved his hand up and down the shaft of Thomas's prick- in quick strokes- that matched the wild pace of his own pulse. "_Ah-_ he- _he_ passed from winter to some _kinder_ time- _ahh_-" Thomas said, continuing to speak without being prompted. "Yes," Jimmy said, holding his gaze- though Thomas seemed to be fighting a war against his own body- trying to stay upright, trying not to reach out for Jimmy- trying not to _come_- and Jimmy moved his hand all the way down, to cup underneath Thomas' cock, feeling a kind of delirious lightheadedness as he did so- and then he moved back up to Thomas's erection- and slid his fingers up the underside of the shaft. Thomas groaned when Jimmy's hand moved, and tried to speak- his voice was all over the place- a mess of ragged peaks and ill-cut valleys, each one forming a word, but barely.

"The trees- and- _oh_ and flowers _bloom_, melt, are _sublime-_ " Thomas gritted his teeth, as Jimmy began to stroke him again in earnest- pressing his forehead against Jimmy's, and said, tersely- "Jimmy I _can't_ if you do that I'm going to-"

"Yes," Jimmy said, unsteadily. The sensation of Thomas's erection in his hand worked on him so powerfully that he felt as if _he_ were somehow the one being touched. Thomas's red mouth was pulled taut- he was rendered wordless, in the grip of sensations so intense that he looked as if he were in unspeakable pain-

"T-take your hand away and I'll do it b-because I'm going to finish in a moment-" Thomas said- it obviously cost him a great effort to say it so clearly- but Jimmy, his mind hazy with lust, laughed, and put his free hand around the base of Thomas's cock. "Right," Jimmy said- and moved his hands against Thomas with an increased tempo.

"N_nn_, ahhh-_God_," Thomas moaned- and he broke his imposed stillness, wrapping his arms around Jimmy's shoulders, and holding him very tightly. Jimmy kissed Thomas's mouth, even as Thomas made incoherent sounds- and then Jimmy felt Thomas tense under him- his whole body moving up, into Jimmy's hand. Jimmy looked down between them, at Thomas's body. The blue points of light that flecked Thomas's torso, commingled with the violet and yellow bruises that marred his skin, made Thomas look like nothing so much as a watercolor painting- and Jimmy was awestruck at the beauty of him- it tightened Jimmy's throat, and made his own cock leak within the confines of his cotton pants. _This is how people are supposed to feel in church_, Jimmy thought- and he laughed, into Thomas's neck- and Thomas made a low sound as Jimmy quickened the motion of his hands. "Yes, do it," Jimmy said.

"Ah_- _god_-_ _please_-" Thomas said- and he moved up and down again, gripping onto Jimmy's back as if there was nothing else fixed in the universe. "Ah- _Jimmy_-"

"Yes, _yes,_ it's alright-" Jimmy said, kissing Thomas's face- and he looked down, at the precise instant that Thomas came. Thomas's whole body went rigid against Jimmy, for a protracted moment- and from the tip of Thomas's cock semen spilled over Jimmy's hand. For a second Jimmy felt panic at the intimacy of it- at the _filthiness_ of it- but he willed it away. _It's erotic though, too,_ Jimmy told himself- and it was- Jimmy was achingly aroused, and as he watched Thomas come Jimmy made some sound of his own, as if he were also being touched. "Yes," Jimmy said- looking between his hand and Thomas's face- and Jimmy kept moving his wrist, up and down the shaft of Thomas's prick, until it seemed that Thomas was finished- though still Thomas moaned at his touch, pressing his face against the side of Jimmy's head- with his arms tightly about Jimmy's back- and rocked them both back and forth.

"Yes," Thomas said, into Jimmy's ear. "Yes-" and then he pushed Jimmy backwards, not even giving him a moment- to clean his hands, or to gather himself- and Jimmy was suddenly on his back, his head at the foot of the bed, with Thomas above him.

"What-" Jimmy asked- and Thomas, his face still red, settled between Jimmy's legs- though he tilted a bit to one side, in deference to his injuries. "Now you," Thomas said, his voice ragged- and he pressed his lips against the fabric that constrained Jimmy's erection.

"_Ah_," Jimmy said- but he made no protest- and Thomas kissed the outline of his cock, laying first his soft lips and then his tongue against the cloth- which was so thin that Jimmy could feel _everything,_ every swipe of Thomas's tongue and the warmth of his mouth. _"Hhh, _ohhhh,_ shite_," Jimmy said, leaning up a bit, so as to see Thomas's head, between his legs.

"You should let me do this now," Thomas said, against Jimmy's hip- his voice was low, and Jimmy's breath caught at the feeling of Thomas's mouth, as he spoke.

"Ah- alright, yes, _please,_" Jimmy said, rolling his hips involuntarily. "Yes, please, d-do it-" Jimmy said, again- and Thomas tugged Jimmy's pants down. "N_ghh_, yes, right," Jimmy muttered, as the hot breeze hit his bare skin. Jimmy could feel that he was already quite _close_- and his prick stood up, terribly hard- but for a moment Thomas only stared at him, as if confronted with something of sublime beauty.

"I love you," Thomas murmured- and he came to lay between Jimmy's legs once more. Jimmy felt a sudden fear pierce him- this was not control but _vulnerability_- as much of yourself as you could give to someone.

"Jimmy," Thomas said- and with his left hand he reached up, to clasp Jimmy's hand- and with his other hand he gripped the base of Jimmy's leaking cock. Jimmy tangled his fingers in Thomas's, shutting his eyes- and then he startled upwards, at the sensation of Thomas's lips around the head of his prick.

"_Ah_," Jimmy said, half-sitting up. His hips flexed of their own accord- and Thomas smiled at him, and squeezed his hand. "May I go on?" Thomas asked- and Jimmy nodded, mutely.

"You really do taste so good," Thomas said- he seemed as if he were speaking to himself- and then he put his mouth again to Jimmy's erection- pressing against Jimmy's hardon with his lips and the motions of his tongue.

"_Oh_, oh, m-my _god-"_ Jimmy said, holding onto Thomas's hand very tightly- he had never _felt_ anything like it- no sensation had ever been as good- there was _nothing_, nothing else- Jimmy could not even tell precisely what Thomas was doing, so overwhelming were the sensations that worked through him.

" _Ah_hh-_" _Jimmy moaned, as Thomas slid his lips further down the shaft of Jimmy's penis- and his legs jerked- and Jimmy buried the hand that was not clutching Thomas's hand into the darkness of Thomas's pomaded hair, which had come partially loose in the heated wind.

"_Thomas_," Jimmy ground out, shifting on the bed, as if to escape the assault of sensation- "_Oh_, oh, _oh_ p-please, oh _yes-_" The feeling of Thomas's mouth spread outward through Jimmy's body, making his stomach muscles clench and his thighs go tense, and he trembled on the coverlet, under the ministrations of Thomas's mouth. _Ah god please I'm going to come,_ Jimmy thought- and he sat up, trying to give voice to the thought. "_Nnngh_ g-_god_- Thomas _wait-_" Jimmy said- and immediately the feeling of Thomas's mouth was gone, leaving Jimmy to hiss at the loss of sensation.

"What's wrong?" Thomas asked- he leaned up- keeping their hands still clasped- and looked into Jimmy's eyes.

"N-nothing's _wrong- _uh- it's just that I- that _I'm_-" Jimmy looked away from Thomas, still moving his hips- Thomas's other hand still encircled the base of Jimmy's prick- and Thomas squeezed, gently, as Jimmy spoke, making him gasp. "_Ahh_ I was just trying to- s-_say _that I- that I'm going to-" Jimmy bit out- but Thomas smiled- and lowered his head. "I should hope so," Thomas said- and then his mouth was on Jimmy's cock again. "_Oh, _p-_please,_" Jimmy gasped, rocking forward- he didn't know how Thomas could do that with his _mouth_- but the pressure was overwhelming. Jimmy felt his body on the edge of completion- and he _fought _it for a moment, out of instinct- struggling against the waves of pleasure that moved outward through him- but the feeling of Thomas's tongue was too much- and the pressure of his hand and lips-

"Oh, _Thomas_ I can't I h-have to _ahh- _y-_yes_-" Jimmy said, trying not to thrust his hips upwards- and Thomas _hummed- _or spoke- or something- against Jimmy's prick- and it was too much. _"Ahhh_- yes, I- _I-_ please _god-_" Jimmy babbled, losing all sense of himself- and sparks flashed in a million bright points, behind his eyes- and he _came,_ arching up off of the mattress- and all the while Thomas kept his mouth where it was, his tongue still rubbing against the underside of Jimmy's prick- it was _unbearably_ intense- and Jimmy moaned wordlessly, forgetting propriety- forgetting _everything-_ and from his mouth came a series of gasps that sounded like sobs.

"Ahhhh, _ahh_, god," Jimmy said, rocking on the bed- even after he had finished, and Thomas pulled away, Jimmy felt as if he were still being swept through by sensation. Jimmy clutched Thomas's left hand so tightly that his own fingers ached- and Thomas smiled as Jimmy dropped his grip- and flexed his fingers.

For a moment Jimmy felt nauseous- this was worse than anything they had done before, _much_ worse- but he fought it, lying very still on the mattress- and taking long breaths. The movement of the wind was comforting- and so was Thomas's presence- for Thomas had come to rest against him, throwing an arm over Jimmy's chest.

"Are you deciding whether or not to be ill?" Thomas asked, after a few moments- and Jimmy looked over- but Thomas's expression was gentle- and he smirked at Jimmy, just a bit.

"I've already decided it's too much of an inconvenience to get dressed and flee down the hall," Jimmy answered- and he almost kissed Thomas's mouth- but then remembered where it had been. "Wash your teeth," Jimmy muttered, shutting his eyes. "And then I'll kiss you."

"Mm, kiss me, and then I'll let you have a lie-down in my bed," Thomas replied, magnanimously, and Jimmy snorted. Jimmy was beginning to recover his breath- but still his voice shook, when he said- "I have a hard time imagining a circumstance where you _wouldn't_ let me into your bed."

"Mm. That's a fair point," Thomas answered, with good humor- and then Thomas got to his feet, with a grimace- and went to his washbasin. Jimmy stood up, as well- and when he reached Thomas, Thomas turned to him, and offered him a damp cloth. "Thank you," Jimmy said- looking at Thomas's nude body, as Thomas unselfconsciously stood, unclothed, washing his teeth. Jimmy wiped his own hands- and then gripped Thomas's waist- just to feel the solid reality of it, in his arms.

"I thought for a moment they would kill you," Jimmy said- and Thomas turned away, to rinse his mouth- and then turned back, looking at Jimmy with confusion. "What?" Thomas asked.

"I thought they would _kill _you," Jimmy said, feeling his throat get tight. "I thought it for a moment. And I ran away and left you there-"

"At the fair?" Thomas asked, looking into Jimmy's eyes- and Jimmy nodded.

"But I'm fine, everything's fine," Thomas said- and he kissed Jimmy's lips, tasting of mint.

"I felt very badly about it," Jimmy said- and it was as if he'd only just realized how _badly _he felt as the words left his mouth- when he had never really given it thought before. "I felt _very_ badly," Jimmy said, again- and Thomas tugged him towards the bed.

"I have an hour to sleep," Thomas said, setting his alarm- and then Thomas pulled back the coverlet- and crawled stiffly into the bed. "Stay with me."

Jimmy paused- but Thomas held his arms out, from down on the little bed- and Jimmy thought- _What harm could it do?_

He didn't know- and when he could not come up with an answer Jimmy nodded- and climbed after Thomas, onto the cot. Thomas put his arms around Jimmy- and kissed Jimmy's temple- and Jimmy relaxed into his touch, feeling his own bare skin pressed against Thomas's. The breeze moved the curtains still, making a ceaseless sound.

"The sea, that's what it reminds me of," Jimmy said, feeling quite tired himself. "Being at the sea."

"This weather," Thomas said- it was either a question or an affirmation- but Jimmy could not tell which.

"Yes," Jimmy said. "It's very nice-" he added- and in his mind he felt some dark thread of worry- but it was outweighed by the press of Thomas's arms and the beat of his heart, which Jimmy was close enough to feel.

"I love you," Thomas said- he was falling asleep- but Jimmy frowned, and stroked a hand through Thomas's mussed hair. "Even though I can't- give you what you _want_?" Jimmy asked.

"You give me everything I want," Thomas said- he sounded- _happy_- and Jimmy saw that Thomas's eyes were firmly closed. "Everything," Thomas muttered. "You're very kind."

"You too," Jimmy said- looking at Thomas's face- a blue spot of light stood out on Thomas's brow- and Jimmy traced the spot, first with his finger- and then with his lips.

"Rest," Thomas said. "Just for a moment."

"Alright, fine," Jimmy said- and he shut his eyes against the light- and lay against Thomas- until, without realizing it, he was asleep.


	10. Chapter 10

It was as if Jimmy had been acting a part- for an hour or two he had been given a great role to portray, and he had played it with a deftness that had never before been evident within him. There had been a world, temporarily created, by Thomas's room- or perhaps by Mr. Carson's departure, which lent to the downstairs an atmosphere of being on holiday. Anyways it had been a _lovelier _world- a place full of mystery and movement, and wild, foreign desert winds- or sea winds, the kind that only blew along the southern coast- and papers and curtains that moved like phantoms, making a song against the breeze. A world where Jimmy and Thomas had known each other for a thousand years, at least, and could speak with a familiarity- an ease- that had never before been quite so evident.

If it was a charm, though- then by the time Jimmy awoke, to the rattling noise of the alarm- it was shattered apart, and he was faced with all the unpleasantness of his own situation. Beside him Thomas did not stir- not even at the noise of the alarm- and Jimmy shut off the clock to spare Thomas his slumber, and left, to dress in his own room- and then went downstairs, to make good on his promise to serve Branson's dinner.

Jimmy had acted quite strange- and it must have been the heat and- and the whiskey- from which he had a slight ache about his skull- that had made him feel so curiously unguarded. _But now I'm myself again_, Jimmy thought- and it was a blessed _relief _to be himself- after having spent the afternoon a stranger in strange lands.

Mrs. Hughes was pleased with Jimmy for his initiative- for keeping work out of Thomas's exhausted hands. Branson wanted to serve himself- which was just as well. He had always made Jimmy feel awkward. Branson lacked the tricks and training of the born nobility- he was poor at ignoring servants- and Jimmy could see how the former chauffeur felt acutely the presence of the other bodies in any room, though the high-born folk did not. Still Jimmy lurked outside the door, as he was supposed to- in case Branson decided he needed anything else for his meal. While he waited Jimmy grew increasingly agitated.

He was annoyed with Thomas- who had stayed foolishly awake, bolstered by his stupid excitement over- over _Jimmy_, or over Carson's leaving, or something. _Thanks very much for making extra work for me,_ Jimmy thought, ungenerously- and, because there was no one to see him, Jimmy leaned up against the wall, folding his arms across his chest.

Jimmy had dreamed of his father- as if in retribution for telling a _lie_ about dreaming of his father. He could not recall the particulars of the dream, only that he had been sitting on the sofa in his childhood home, swinging his legs and waiting to be punished for some transgression. And then his father had appeared over him, after an eternity of time- informed of his misdeeds, no doubt, by his mother. In Jimmy's dream, as in his earliest memories, Jimmy's father had been _massive_- he hadn't been a large man, really- but to Jimmy he had filled a whole room with his presence alone.

"James," his father had said- "What _have_ you done?" It was always _James_ when Jimmy had done something wrong. Even in his dream, at the mention of his full name, Jimmy had braced himself for punishment.

Jimmy shifted against the wall, listening through the door to the muffled scrape of Branson's utensils as they moved across china plates. _The man even eats wrongly,_ Jimmy thought, sourly. Jimmy could feel where Thomas's mouth had been on him- and he felt _unclean_- and longed for a wash-up- for an erasure of the past days- for the universe to resume its normal track, and he could be alone again- not curiously burdened by the existence of another person, pressing always like a weight against his chest.

In Jimmy's mind Thomas told a pretty story about a family that loved him- and somehow the memory of it only further served to darken Jimmy's mood- he scowled at the wallpaper opposite him, ignoring an ugly still life of apples that was framed on the edge of his vision.

_But the world isn't like that,_ Jimmy thought. _They ruined you, you know, your compassionate parents. To tell you those things and then die, leaving you alone, with strange ideas- it'll be more pain for you in the end, when you find you can't have what you want._

Jimmy wondered _what_, exactly, Thomas imagined: A torrid affair, carried out in secret, right at Downton? It would be discovered. Eventually it would be discovered. There was no way to live whatever life Thomas was so certain he deserved- and if he thought there _was_ some way- some secret clause of happiness, sewn into the fabric of existence solely for Thomas Barrow, well- then he was bound for a difficult realization.

Jimmy shut his eyes for a moment- the sound of Branson eating, even dulled as it was by the door, drove him mad- getting under his skin and setting his teeth on edge. _I need a few moments,_ Jimmy thought, _just a few moments of silence-_

When he closed his eyes Jimmy was confronted by the image of Thomas's face, in an expression of fixed pleasure- and immediately after that, the memory of Thomas's head, dipping between his legs. _I wonder if it hurt him to do that, with the cut on his mouth, and everything,_ Jimmy thought- but he forced himself to drop the thought, and the image that went with it.

When Lord and Lady Grantham returned Thomas was still upstairs, unheard-from and presumably deep in slumber- and so Jimmy and Mrs. Hughes went up, by mutual agreement- and she locked the doors, while he saw to the windows and lights.

"Thank you for stepping in, James," Mrs. Hughes said, as they returned to the quiet hall. O'Brien and Bates had finished their evening's work, and vanished, leaving the downstairs a monument to silence. Jimmy had heard Alfred return for the night- and other assorted people- the hall boys, or Daisy and Ivy- he couldn't be sure. But now everyone had retired- and so Jimmy stepped over the edge of decorum, and said, to Mrs. Hughes: "He shouldn't be working yet."

Mrs. Hughes did not ask whom he meant, or deflect the claim, or chastise Jimmy for being out-of-line, as he'd thought she might. Instead her lips pressed together, thinly- and she nodded.

Jimmy bolstered by this agreement, added: "It's not right that Mr. Carson left him here with everything- just 'cause one of the _upstairs_ people-"

"It's not appropriate for _either_ of us to express those sentiments, James," Mrs. Hughes said- though she did not look cross with him. "Regardless of how we may feel. What's done is done."

"Yes, Mrs. Hughes," Jimmy replied, but he could not rid himself of the indignation that moved through him. Jimmy was seized by a sudden urge to slam on the piano keys madly, over and over, making noises of such dissonance that everyone in the house would be woken, and maddened by his strange music.

"And now I think perhaps that we should get some rest," Mrs. Hughes said- and Jimmy, though he wanted to scream, and wrench paintings from the walls- or light matches and drop them errantly on the ground, letting flames lick where they might- only sighed, and acquiesced.

Upstairs Jimmy went immediately to his journal- he had been too long without laying hands on the bright cover of it- and to touch it now brought a relief to him that was incomparable to all else. Here was his blue book, free of judgement- to read it would not cost Jimmy his mind or heart or- or _soul_- it was just a pretty story. Or _two _stories, one after the other- a madman- and then another man, a secret artist. _And the ending is the best of all, _Jimmy mused. Tonight, Jimmy decided, he would look over the last poem in the book- he had been saving it because he loved it so, and only allowing himself a read-through every few days. _It is the best of the lot,_ Jimmy thought- and he sat on his bed, and flipped back the tome's cover. Jimmy opened it accidentally to the soldier's half- though he spent more time moving his fingers over the pages that Thomas had authored, _Thomas_ had obviously spent more hours among the soldier's words- and the book would open accordingly, to its most well-loved spots. Jimmy glanced down at the unknown soldier's writing- it was a smattering of words on the bottom of one page- enclosed in a drawing a of a frame. Like a painting- or a mirror- holding a bit of the soldier's mind in its reflection.

_Jack_, the writing began- so much of the soldier's writing began that way- _Jack, I know you think me incapable- and Father thinks me incapable- but I have advanced here, within the ranks- which should only prove that I am more than equipped to exist within the world. I swear that if I make it out of this alive, I shall come home, and put my ill tempers behind me, and take the farm, so that Father may retire. You needn't always be so damnably _worried _that you won't be able to do what you want- you won't have to _care _for me, you know- I am no invalid, unable to help myself- I am capable. Perfectly capable-_

"I am perfectly capable," Jimmy said, in a flat tone- and he frowned at the page- and flipped through the book. He had meant to go to the end- the last poem- but he stopped on the page that held the love story- the story Thomas had whispered in his ear the night before- the last thing Jimmy had heard before being claimed by dreams.

_The house held still as curtains, but they moved, _Jimmy read-  
_Through terrains flat or cumbersome or loose_  
_and when the skies were drear they made their truce_

_And called the atoms up from pots that sang_  
_Euripides, to punctuating rain_  
_and poured like aged silver down the drain_  
_the coalescing ambiance of love._

_Oh, their cathedral cracked from side to side!_  
_With errant avenues they found their way_  
_Diminished as they were by time and tide_

_There, there, they said, are all the things we are_  
_In cabinets, all that we could have been,_  
_An excellence in artifacts by far_  
_Unmasking things they swore they hadn't seen-_

_He moved within her as within the house;_  
_A figure in a dream, he could not wake-_  
_and when he did, he longed to shut dreams out-_  
_If only for his only lover's sake-_

_Then, how she begged him in the corridor!_  
_In the red parlor! Lying on the stair!_  
_With her dark glance,_  
_she searched him and accused him- she saw his_  
_love still plainly painted there-_

_In the cool attics, oh, how she bemused him_  
_He tried once to resist, but she gave chase-_  
_The house they lived in sighed and let her use him_  
_Because she had a most compelling face-_

_The porches and the corridors bewitched_  
_him- and everywhere, the blackness of her hair-_  
_Within the arboretum or the kitchen_  
_He felt that she was always, always there_

_The day she died the roof fell down in tatters,_  
_The floorboards sank, the shingles took to ground_  
_Without her it was empty, earth to rafters,_  
_Without her all its ambiance was drowned-_

_There was to him some comfort in it still-_  
_The house was like a draught of her perfume-_  
_and drafts that blew like ghosts across the space_  
_made papers flutter in his sitting room-_

_And he imagined, and imagines still,_  
_In whatever corrupted dreams he dreams-_  
_That she is some sweet tonic to his ills, her palms_  
_against his face, whispering sweets-_  
_and worlds unfolding between lover's hands_  
_He and the house together_  
_With her, in enchanted lands,_  
_forever._

Jimmy could not imagine what it was about- well, it was about love lost, surely- a ghost story, of sorts- but Jimmy could not see how it pertained to _Thomas_. Perhaps it was just a story- but it moved Jimmy, all the same, as the plight of real people never had.

Jimmy was overcome with the urge to get up- and so he did, shifting off of his mattress. In his own room Jimmy had kept the windows shut- the heat was stifling, but the heated wind that blew in was somehow more unbearable. It gave Jimmy strange thoughts- and called to mind the unreal afternoon.

_Don't go to his room,_ Jimmy told himself- but he left his book on the bed, and slipped across the hall- glancing over his shoulder, to make sure that Alfred or a hallboy did not appear in some doorway, and catch him out- and he slipped into Thomas's bedroom. Here the curtains still moved in the hot wind, and Thomas slept- in a slumber that looked profoundly deep- and did not stir, even when Jimmy stood directly over him. Jimmy stared at Thomas's battered face- his red lips, cut up- and suddenly he was overwhelmed by a savage sweep of emotion.

It should_ not_ move him so to look at the face of someone asleep, Jimmy thought- that was for poorly written books and maudlin pictures that he would not be inclined to sit through- and not for _real_ life- and certainly not for _him_- he, who had been, quite happily, an island unto himself.

But nevertheless the strange surge of feeling overtook him- and Jimmy clutched his chest, because it pained him so- and turned away, raking his hands through his hair. He was suddenly, fearfully afraid that he was not awake at all- but dreaming- and that reality had slipped him, and he could no longer distinguish anything, anything at all-

_No,_ Jimmy thought, with every bit of force he could muster- _No, I don't want this-_

"I don't want it," Jimmy whispered, aloud- and he turned, to see if he had woken Thomas with his words- but Thomas was still, save for the rise and fall of his chest. On the floor by the bed Thomas's sliver lighter caught the moonlight that slipped in and out of gathering clouds- and Jimmy bent without thinking, and picked it up, feeling the weight in his hand. _Yes,_ Jimmy decided, vaguely- and he went to the lamp, and pulled the blue glass earrings off of it. _I'll just take these, and the lighter,_ Jimmy determined- and he turned on his heel, casting one last look at Thomas. As he reached the door, Jimmy had a thought- but it seemed to come from _without_- not from in his head- as if another version of himself had spoken from another corner of the room.

_You thief, keeping all these trinkets just to feel close to him-_  
_ Because you _need_ him-_

"No, that's not _why_," Jimmy hissed- and he flung the earrings and the lighter from his clenched palm, as if he'd discovered that they were crawling with maggots- and rubbed his hand against his pants, to wipe it clean of his intentions. The lighter skimmed the ground, and rolled on its side, before striking against one of the legs of the vanity. The earrings- old and delicate as they were- flew across the room- hitting the far wall- and fell to the ground underneath the window- and Jimmy watched as the largest glass gem from one of the them popped out of its setting, and rolled across the floor.

_I don't care,_ Jimmy thought- although for a moment his heart skipped at the sight of the broken earring- but then he turned- not waiting to see if he had woken Thomas- and walked stiffly out of the room.

In his own room panic surged through Jimmy's blood, hot and cold as Hell and January- and he could not sit, he could not remain _still_- and he grabbed his blue book- and forced his feet into his shoes with haste- and then left. By the time he reached the servants hall Jimmy was not taking care to be quiet- there was no Mr. Carson to catch him- and with that obstacle removed, there was nothing left to prevent Jimmy from breaking in to a run.

Jimmy fled out, into the heated night- and was accosted by wind, wind that moved over his body without cooling him. Above Jimmy was hung an endless banner of darkness, dotted by gathering clouds- but the whole sky was not yet covered- and the moon was, for a few moments, utterly unobscured. The moon- it was nearly full- and it was a startling color: almost yellow, too bright to be believed.

_It's isn't yellow, it's orange,_ Jimmy thought- and he ran from the moon, as well, though it lit his way. Jimmy wore shoes, yes- but he was otherwise clad in nightclothes- and his dressing gown flapped behind him as he stumbled across the grounds, tripping and half-falling, but catching himself, and clinging all the while to his book. Jimmy understood- in a very distant way- that he was making a fool of himself, that such displays- even if nobody else knew about them- were absurd, detestable. But he was too intent on _escape_, on the frantic beating of his heart in his chest, to alter his course- and his shoes took him down the sloping hill, away from Downton- and towards the fields beyond- to the secret ruins where Thomas had ruined _him_.

At the mouth of the field that lay before the woods- the woods that held the crumbled foundation where Jimmy had lately done things he shouldn't have- Jimmy stumbled on some hidden root- and he fell hard onto the earth, going sprawling- his journal was flung from his grip- and he rolled across the ground before recovering himself. "_Augh_," Jimmy said aloud, assessing himself- he managed to rise to his knees- which felt as if they had been bloodied.

Suddenly Jimmy could not escape a moment of self-reflection- here he knelt on the ground, alone, in the low-lit and heated night, almost laughing, because he was at the end of his wits. _You're falling apart,_ Jimmy thought- and he found he did not have the strength to argue against it any longer, because it was true. He was falling apart.

"Please," Jimmy said- he was shocked at how his voice came out, sounding cracked- sounding loathsomely desperate. "Please," Jimmy said again- and he looked up at the orange moon. "Please help me," Jimmy whispered- "I need a way _out_ of this-"

The moon did not answer- and Jimmy crawled forward- and grasped his blue book, which had fallen open- to the unknown soldier's half- though the pages fluttered up and down in the wind. The clouds parted in such a way that the light of the moon threw the page into sharp relief- and for a moment, Jimmy could make out the soldier's words- aided, as he was, by having read them already.

_' -but I must admit that my thoughts were with you- and Mother, and Father- and long lazy summer evenings after a day of hard labor, when the body is tired from good clean work, and the mind is, for once, at peace.'_

It was _here,_ Jimmy realized, suddenly- it was all _here- _and he had seen it all already- the mystery of the soldier- and Jack, _dearest Jack_- the junior behaviorist- and the farm-

Yes. And the scraps he had discovered, in Thomas's dresser- the address- Jimmy thought of it- an address for a _home_- yes- _ Mr. & Mrs. Jonathan Courtenay_- and the name of their farm- '_something_-Hill'- in Devon. Jimmy could not remember the exact address- but it didn't matter- because- the man he had to speak to was not _there_- because with that address had been the newspaper article. With some colossal act of memory Jimmy summoned up a line, perfectly recalled, through all the words that lately cluttered his skull- a line of the article:

_'The Harcourt Institute- based in Mevagissey, and headed by Dr. Jacques-Sebastian Hoyle, had previously generated much heated debate-'_

Jacques. Jack. Jack the behaviorist. In the journal before Jimmy were the soldier's words:

_'My imaginings of how father will react to the news that you've become more invested in the field of human study than in the noble pursuit of farming are a source of constant humor-'_

"I don't know, I don't _know_," Jimmy said- and he gathered the book to his chest, pressing his body against the one fixed thing in the universe entire- the only thing he had. _Are you his brother, Dr. Jacques-Sebastian Hoyle?_ Jimmy wondered- and it seemed strange- because at the very same time Jimmy was _certain_ that the address- for the Courtenays and their farm- was the address of the very place the soldier had written of so wistfully- his childhood home.

Jimmy did not know- but it came to him that he had been given a sign- he had asked for the cup to be taken from his lips- for the dreadful burden upon him to be removed- and then he had been struck by this odd moment of revelation. _Dearest Jack never got to read his mad brother's words, because Thomas is a thief, of course,_ Jimmy thought- and then he thought-

_If I can give the journal back to the soldier's brother- perhaps- I can be free of this- perhaps I can be released-_

"Yes," Jimmy said- he almost _shouted_ it to the windstruck night, so emphatically did he feel the truth of the idea. It was a hunch and an ill-founded one, with little evidence- but perhaps if he could- if he could- perhaps he could get some _closure-_

_Closure for what?_ Jimmy wondered- but it was a wonderful idea- _closure-_ as definitive and implacable as a shut book. Jimmy rose to his feet- though he could feel that he was trembling, a low-grade tremor that worked through him and almost made him drop his journal. "I'm sorry, but you'll have to go," Jimmy said, to the blue tome- and though his throat felt tight at the thought of parting with his book- his beloved book, marker of his days- he also felt the firmest sort of resolve.

"If I don't do it I'll lose myself," Jimmy said- and at the threat of it, of losing _himself_, Jimmy felt suffused with purpose. _And I can't lose myself, I haven't anything else._

"No, nothing," Jimmy whispered- and he turned his feet away from the path he had almost walked- towards the ruins. As he made his way back to the house, there came from the gathering clouds the first sounds of thunder.

Jimmy barely slept- but he rose, perfectly, at his accustomed hour. He had been restless but now he felt calm- and he met his own eyes quite boldly in the mirror- and managed a small, if insincere, smile. As he was putting on his tie Jimmy realized that he had never reset Thomas's alarm. _He won't wake up-_ Jimmy thought- and he went quickly to Thomas's door. In the hall he ran into Alfred- and he turned, immediately- as if he had not intended to go to Thomas's room at all.

"You missed a good time," Alfred said, with an expression of happiness that was sublimely annoying at this early hour. "You should've come-"

"I'll be down in a minute," Jimmy said, sharply, and retreated back into his own room, staying behind his door until he heard Alfred's footsteps carry him down the stairs- and then he opened his door once more, and went again to Thomas's bedroom.

Jimmy turned the door handle without knocking- and then blinked, in surprise- because Thomas was already awake- and fully dressed- a perfect butler. Thomas was sitting at his desk- and laid in front of him were his blue earrings- and an odd set of tools. Thomas held a slender instrument- a metal pick- in one hand- with it he was working back the bent setting on the broken earring. the blue jewel that had fallen from the earring when Jimmy had thrown it was also on the desk, laid out as the tools were, with exacting precision.

At Jimmy's intrusion Thomas looked up- and his expression of concentration- and perhaps some irritation that had flickered across his face, at being interrupted- altered- and he smiled at Jimmy, very sweetly. "Don't worry, I'm awake."

"I- I didn't set your alarm," Jimmy said- but Thomas shook his head. "I slept for nearly twelve hours, I didn't need an alarm. I'm sorry- you must've served for me last night."

"It was fine," Jimmy said, unable to take his eyes off of Thomas's hands- and the broken earring. At his look Thomas indicated the desk. "They fell of off the lamp sometime last night, in the wind," Thomas said. "But I can fix this one. The jewel's scratched, though," Thomas added.

"I'm sorry," Jimmy said, in a undertone. "I'm sorry I made you put them up there." For a moment Jimmy felt as if he would scream, or fall to his knees, begging forgiveness- but anyways he had not been caught at anything- and then he thought of his plan- and felt quite strong, quite full of rationality and guile.

Thomas smiled, though his attention was back on his task. "You shouldn't apologize for anything about yesterday," Thomas said- he said it quite smoothly, without looking up from his work- but his cheeks flushed a faint red color.

_Okay, go on,_ Jimmy thought- and willed his voice to sound normal- affectionate, even- and he said, lowly- in the tones that Thomas found, as he'd admitted, so appealing- "I have to ask you something." Thomas looked up again, at Jimmy's tone. _That's right, you can't say no to me,_ Jimmy said, internally. How awful, to be so ripped apart by love. _I could live a thousand years, and be happy all the while, if no-one ever had the sort of hold over me that I have over him._

"Let's have a guess," Thomas said, smiling slightly. "About poetry?"

Jimmy shook his head. "Was the soldier's surname- which was it- _Hoyle_ or Courtenay?" Thomas's eyes widened, and Jimmy added, glibly, "I just can't narrow it down."

"Ah- snooping around?" Thomas asked- and Jimmy met his eyes, solidly, and nodded. He forced his lips to curve upward- so that he was smiling at Thomas- and he hoped that the affection on his face looked terribly sincere. "I'm jealous," Jimmy added, trying to affect an expression of discomfort. Just saying it, in such wheedling tones, made Jimmy taste bile. However he must have been convincing- because the color on Thomas's face darkened, and he replied, immediately: "You needn't be, Jimmy. It were- it _was _Courtenay. Lieutenant Edward Courtenay."

"Lieutenant Edward Courtenay. And Jack his brother. So who is Jacques-Sebastian Hoyle?" Jimmy asked. he came to stand close by the desk- and he let one of his hands bump against Thomas's, not breaking their shared gaze.

Thomas laughed- looking not a touch suspicious, but in fact genuinely amused. "I think you're quite clever yourself," Thomas said- and he tapped the metal pick twice against his lips. The gesture made a tremor work through Jimmy's body- but he fought it off, even as his heart beat faster.

"That's right," Jimmy said, with all the nonchalance he could inject into his tone. "I am very clever. So tell me."

"I think it _is_ the brother, under an assumed name," Thomas said. "So he don't embarrass his _family_."

"D'ya not like him?" Jimmy asked- it was off subject, and he knew he should not linger in conversation with the other man- but Thomas's tone had piqued his curiosity.

"Nah, he was a rotter. That family's half the reason Lieutenant Courtenay did himself in, I think-"

"Yes, but-" Jimmy paused, grasping around for the right words- "Ah- don't you think perhaps the soldier's viewpoint- the Lieutenant's- was a tad... _unreliable_?"

"No," Thomas said, flatly. His eyes searched Jimmy's and Jimmy fought the urge to scream. "But... Thomas-" _I know you think he was wonderful but he was _awful_, can't you see he was a terrible man? A sad and terrible man, locked away in some sad and terrible world of his own-_

"Jimmy," Thomas said- and he rose from his seat- "What's the _matter_?"

"Why-" Jimmy paused, and offered Thomas a slight expression of worry. "Nothing. I mean-" Jimmy paused, and gestured between them. "It's just a _lot_," he said, quietly- and it worked- Thomas's expression grew very soft- and he nodded. "It's alright, though," Thomas said- and laid a hand on Jimmy's shoulder.

"Yes," Jimmy said. "I think it will be." He stepped back- but nodded at Thomas, as he did it. "Now I'd best get downstairs," Jimmy said, lightly. "And you as well, Mr. Barrow."

"Yes, sir," Thomas said, still smiling- and he knocked off a little salute. "I'll be right there."

In the hallway Jimmy thought, for a moment, that he would cry- but that was absurd- and so he continued downstairs- his heartbeat stammering in his chest- a prisoner that had finally, finally, seen a route to escape.

Mrs. Patmore was upset about _something_- food, Jimmy had observed, was a dramatic business- and when Thomas made it downstairs he said to the table: "Well, don't stand, sit down and eat-" and they all did, though Thomas remained standing- he joined Mrs. Hughes at Mrs. Patmore's elbow, just outside the doorframe, speaking in assuaging tones. "We saw _The Ace of Hearts,_" Alfred was saying, and Jimmy nodded- though his mind was racing. "You were right, Lon Chaney's really good- and the _girl_, she-"

"Don't worry, I'll get the driver to take me around to some of the farms, we'll have it before dinner," Thomas said, from across the room. "I'm sure Mr. Bainborough can help us, and if not then Mr. Froye-"

"-and of course then Farallone gets the ace of hearts, but he can't bring himself to do it- an' he still has the _bomb_, the one they were supposed to use for The Man Who Has Lived Too Long-"

"I have to go out for a few hours- Jimmy- James- you will stand in for me at breakfast-" Thomas said, interrupting the conversation at the table- and Jimmy nodded, duly. "Yes, Mr. Barrow," Jimmy affirmed- but inside he was astonished- the obstructions to his roughly-devised plan had fallen away, as if pushed, by the hand of an otherwise unhelpful God. _I might never see him again,_ Jimmy thought- and he looked Thomas up and down one last time, to remember him.

"I should, however, be back for luncheon," Thomas said- and he left the room, presumably to gather his things.

_It's all working out,_ Jimmy thought, _because this is what I'm supposed to do._ Yes. He would give away the blue book- to its rightful owner- and then he would be free. Perhaps he would go to France- to be with Lady Anstruther- or find another job, in some other field. _I could write to Thomas for a reference,_ Jimmy thought.

It didn't matter. It had all been a mistake, from the first moment that he had ever stepped foot into Downton's ornate halls. _I never should've come here,_ Jimmy thought- and his stomach twisted. It had all gone so wrong, so awfully wrong-

"Not very professional, for him to be half-absent two days running," O'Brien said- in the sort've undertone that was meant to carry across the table. Jimmy looked to Mrs. Hughes- to say something in Thomas's defense- but Mrs. Hughes was still in the doorway with Mrs. Patmore, and hadn't heard O'Brien.

"That's not very fair," Anna said- but she did not say it with any real vehemence. Thomas's competence did not seem to be a subject that overly moved her. "He _is _still recovering-"

"You know you're an awful _witch_," Jimmy said to O'Brien, rising to his feet- because it didn't _matter_, none of it mattered anymore- "and everybody hates you except _Alfred_, even the only friend you ever had to care for you-"

Out of the corner of his eye Jimmy saw the astonished expressions of everyone at the table- well, most of them looked astonished- Mr. Bates only leaned forward, an unreadable look in his eye- and Alfred, from Jimmy's elbow, said: "Now, see _here_, Jimmy-"

But Jimmy kept his eyes fixed firmly on O'Brien's face- and she blinked at him, her face as blank as he had ever seen it.

"-and I'm glad you have to _go_, because it makes me ill to _look _at you," Jimmy went on, through his teeth. "You 'll be miserable all your lonely days- and- and I-" Jimmy broke off, uncertain of what he had meant to say, and sharply aware that everyone's attention was fixed upon him.

The table had gone utterly silent- but Jimmy did not wait to hear O'Brien's retort- or Alfred's blustering- he turned heel- and fled into the hallway, slipping around Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore. There was Thomas, again- exiting from Mr. Carson's office.

"I know you're going out, but I have to use the telephone," Jimmy said, hurriedly- and Thomas gave him an odd look- but held the door open. "Is everything all right?" Thomas asked, quietly, as Jimmy walked past him- and Jimmy looked up, and nodded- fixing in his memory perfectly the image of Thomas's face. Those austere planes and angles- and the softness contradicting them. _I'll never see another face like yours, _Jimmy thought.

"Everything's perfectly alright," Jimmy said- and he smiled at Thomas- so that he could see Thomas smile in return, one last time. "I'll see you in a few hours," Thomas said- and he bowed out of the office, shutting the door behind himself, so that Jimmy was alone.

Jimmy asked the operator to connect him to The Harcourt Institute, in Mevagissey. "In Nellow Castle," Jimmy said, surprising himself with the breadth of his memory- and then he waited for several moments, listening to the clicking of connections made, until a woman picked up. "This is the Harcourt Institute. Are you calling to make arrangements or to speak with a resident?"

"I'm calling to speak with Dr. Hoyle," Jimmy said, tapping his fingers against the wood grain of Carson's desk. "It's about his family."

"Your name?" The woman asked, in polite tones, and Jimmy sensed imminent dismissal. "Edward Courtenay," Jimmy answered. "I'll see if he's in. Please hold the line for one moment," the woman said- and then Jimmy could only hear background noise. And then he heard a man's voice- an _accented_ voice- saying faintly. "No, yes, thank you, Margaret, I'll take it- if- if you'll excuse me-"

Jimmy shifted where he stood- and then the man said "Hello?" into the mouthpiece- and Jimmy blinked. The man was unmistakably _Irish_- and Jimmy thought definitively that Thomas must have been mistaken, that Jack Courtenay was actually farming away somewhere, in happy obscurity.

For a moment Jimmy, in panic, almost broke the connection. But Dr. Hoyle had taken the call for Edward Courtenay. "Am I speaking to Jack Courtenay?" Jimmy asked, keeping his voice very steady.

"This is Dr. Hoyle," The Irishman said, after a pause. "With whom am _I_ speaking?"

"I have something that belonged to Jack Courtenay's brother," Jimmy said, measuredly. "I thought-"

"Are you a newspaperman?" Now the voice on the far end of the line sounded terse.

"No, no," Jimmy said. "I'm- I live in the village that had the hospital- the place where Edward Courtenay met his end. Ah. And I have something for his brother- a blue- a blue _journal_-"

"A blue journal," Dr. Hoyle repeated- and then suddenly his foreign accent melted away, as if it had never been- and he said, in more excited tones- "But you _can't_- you mean to say that _you_- was it _written_ in?"

"Yes. Extensively," Jimmy said. _I can't give him Thomas's writing,_ Jimmy thought. _Perhaps I'll cut the second half _out_, and keep it for myself-_

But no. Jimmy knew that he could not keep Thomas- not any little part of him- or else he would never be able to get out from under this- this thing that held him.

"I would be everlastingly and _exceedingly _grateful to you if you could send it to me-"

"I'll do you one better. I will deliver it to you this evening," Jimmy said, taking a deep breath through his nose. Outside the thunder had made good on its lengthy promises- and through the window Jimmy saw the beginnings of rain.

"Yes. Yes- that would be much appreciated. But what is your name?"

"You tell me why you take an assumed name, an' pretend to be an Irishman, and I'll tell you my name," Jimmy said, evenly- and the man on the other end laughed. "Ha! Alright, if you insist. Though I'm not quite convinced you aren't a newspaperman, trying to blackmail me for an exclusive exposé on L.W. Hart-"

"Who?" Jimmy asked, and Jack Courtenay laughed again. _Oh,_ Jimmy recalled, _Hart is that robber-baron who founded the Institute-_

"The false name is so as to spare my family the embarrassment of my scandalous career," Courtenay said. "And the accent- I'm doing a study on- look here, do you know what _xenophobia_ means?"

_He's as mad as his brother,_ Jimmy thought- but Courtenay had fulfilled his half of the bargain- and so he only muttered: "Yes, I know what it means. From the Greek. And my name is Jimmy Kent. I'll see you in six or seven hours."

"I- look, Mr. Kent, it's urgent business for _me_ to get- well, anything that belonged to Edward, really- and I am... more appreciative than I can, ah, _say_. But- after all this _time_, why are _you_ so anxious to-"

"Don't analyze _my _behavior, ," Jimmy said- he did not know if Courtenay's _doctorate _was real- but he assumed not, since everything else about the man was untrue. Jimmy was certain he had reached his wit's end, and manners were no longer part of his consideration. "Just tell me if you'll be there when I arrive."

"Yes, most definitely," Courtenay agreed, sounding unfazed by Jimmy's tone. "I _live_ here. At the Institute. But-"

"Good. Goodbye," Jimmy replied, firmly, and hung up. His hands were trembling. Outside the rain made rivers across the windowpanes, and occasional thunder sounded, like the most ominous sort of applause- and Jimmy thought of Stravinsky, of The Rite of Spring, of unbearable music. "_Ta guele_," Jimmy said, as the thunder roared again- and he laughed, helplessly- and brought his hand to his mouth.

Jimmy went upstairs- working quickly, before breakfast needed to be served and his absence was noticed- and he threw a valise from his closet onto the bed. Into this Jimmy shoved his suits haphazardly- he changed into his tan suit- and left his livery in a careless pile on the floor. Jimmy packed the blue journal- and the poem Thomas had written to him, about his cards- and cursed, when he realized that Thomas was still in possession of his lucky deck. _Let him keep it,_ Jimmy thought- _I'll get another damned set of cards._

Jimmy took every scrap of money that he had- and of course his banking information, his wallet- everything he needed. With some little effort he could narrow it down to what would fit into one valise. _Everything is going to be alright,_ Jimmy told himself- though it hardly helped that it was Thomas's voice that resounded through his head.

He had to make one last attempt to find his cards, resolve or no- and so Jimmy, carrying his suitcase- and his overcoat, because it took up too much space to pack- slipped, for what he thought would be the very _last_ time, into Thomas's room.

Here the windows were still open- and the rain was much louder- and Jimmy could smell Thomas's aftershave. There, on the surface of the desk, were the two earrings- the broken one had been repaired expertly- but Jimmy could make out a scratch on the largest of the glass jewels. And there, on the desk beside them- his deck of cards, laid out so innocuously that Jimmy took a breath.

They were wrapped around with a sheet of paper- and Jimmy unwrapped the paper, tucking his cards away, into his inner pocket. It was Thomas's writing- that elegant writing, that Jimmy felt he knew almost better now than his own- and it said:

_You're an awful snoop if you find these- but I thought I'd be merciful. Perhaps we can play cards tonight-_

"Oh, _stop,_" Jimmy said- and crumpled the paper in his fist- he'd meant to throw it into the little rubbish bin by the desk- but, of its own accord, his hand put the paper away, in the same safe pocket that held his cards.

"Everything is going to be alright," Jimmy said- it was the refrain of his thoughts- but this time he said it aloud- and he looked, one final time, at Thomas's room. Thomas's beloved room. _Too bad. too bad we didn't live somewhere else, Thomas. Or sometime else. Or I was someone else. Someone who you could pour your love into, a person you could _have_- in all those strange ways that you need somebody. I can't be that for you- I'm sorry for it, but I can't- it's beyond what I... but everything will be alright, you'll see._

"You'll be better off and so will I," Jimmy said- and he left the room. As Jimmy walked down the stairs, he thought of the song that Thomas had written and he had sung- _Once, a fear pierced him, on the old deserted stairs- or at the slightest whim or nearest chairs-_

"T'was rather _grim,_ but then, who _cares_?" Jimmy said aloud. _I'm going to think of that poem all my days, whenever I encounter a stairwell._ Jimmy went out through the upstairs instead of the down- to avoid questions that would undoubtedly be hurled in his direction- like lightning from Olympus- if he appeared in the servant's hall with a suitcase and dressed in regular clothing. _I just want to slip away, and never be heard from again_, Jimmy thought- and he made it through the house without detection- there was no-one to see him except the maids, and he did not encounter them.

Jimmy walked down the gravel drive, into a morning so laden with clouds that it was nearly dark outside- and the deluge poured down on him, soaking the shoulders of his suit- but Jimmy only adjusted the brim of his cap, and headed for the path that ran parallel to the road- the path that led to the village.

Right before he reached the treeline, Jimmy turned- and looked back at Downton. Rain-obscured as it was- and even though thunder rolled dangerously around him- Jimmy stared at the house for a long moment. In its expanse it was suddenly lovely to him- and sad- as it had never been. Lovely and sad as Thomas Barrow's expression, when something pained him.

_Maybe there are other worlds than this,_ Jimmy thought. _And things turn out in some way, some joyous way- some improbable way- and there is something, something looking out for us all- even the lowest of us-_

"But not in this world," Jimmy said- and he turned away from the house. _In this world, I have to look out for myself._


	11. Chapter 11

Not many of us ever get the chance to decide our fate- well, we _decide_ it, of course, in a million little ways- but not in one great moment- not with one action- not in a way that we can look back on and understand. However Thomas was not _many_ people- he was only himself- and there had been numerous occasions when he felt, truly, that he had been master of his fate, and sole arbiter of his own destiny. He could list moments off neat as you please- when he had taken his life in his own hands, for good or ill. It was something he took pride in, this modicum of control in a limitless and uncontrollable universe- the instances when he had fought the current of circumstance, and turned his own tides- a bad black market deal, a neat insinuation- a kiss- and, most strikingly, a single image- his own outstretched arm- his clean, unwounded hand- moments before a bullet had torn it through. If Thomas was ever thrown before the holy throne of God- of an _imaginary _God, in his opinion- and commanded to justify himself- to justify his own existence- he knew, clear as crystal, what he would say: _I held my arm up. It trembled- but I held it up, of my own will._

It was something Thomas had always been glad of, in a secret way- secret because he knew he couldn't ever tell. It was one thing to be a _coward_, as society said- to commit such an act- and another to take pride in the committing of such an act. To see it as a thing of courage- or honor- would probably be regarded as the worst sort of perversion. Much like other aspects of himself Thomas took pride in- aspects which society reviled. Still he felt acutely his own surprise in himself, for being able to draw upon such wellsprings of strength- and the thought stayed with him always, the idea of being master of his own destiny. It was all in the lighter, the trench- the upward gesture- his shaking hand- and the moment before the gunfire. _That-_ that, had been, as they say, the moment of truth, when the circumstances of his fate had turned in his own hands like a coin.

Or so Thomas would have forever believed- but. But somehow- miraculously- he'd chanced to look out of the window of the automobile, as Stark drove them back through Downton's little village- and seen Jimmy's back, as Jimmy disappeared into the train station.

Any combination of circumstances could have prevented him from glimpsing Jimmy- if Mr. Bainborough had not been possessed of the items Mrs. Patmore needed, and they had needed to drive further out of town, to see Mr. Froye- or if the rain had been any heavier, rendering vision impossible- or if Thomas had not turned his face, at that very instant, as if he had known that his gaze would find something unutterably important.

It was _undoubtedly _Jimmy- his cap and the driving rain obscured the color of his hair- but Thomas would have known even his _back_ at a thousand paces. Jimmy wore his tan suit- and in his hand he held a valise. "Stop the car," Thomas said, before he realized he was going to say anything- and Stark obeyed, sliding him a puzzled glance. "I've just remembered something I must do," Thomas said. "You go on. I'll meet you at the house."

"Yes, Mr. Barrow," the chauffeur replied- Stark was too well-mannered to let his bewilderment at Thomas's behavior show very much- and Thomas climbed out of the car, his pulse kicking up by rapid notches. _I should've known something was wrong with him earlier,_ Thomas thought. _Should've known he'd try something mad-_

It was true- Jimmy had seemed almost eerily calm, that morning- possessed of a level of composure that he'd not previously had after any of their romantic encounters. Thomas had wanted to think that it meant Jimmy was coming to terms with all that was between them, in his own way- but clearly he had been wrong. _He's running away. _The suitcase said it all- and Thomas was so immediately certain of Jimmy's plans for escape that he wondered if part of him hadn't expected Jimmy to try such a thing all along.

Thomas did not pause to think about what he was doing at he ran through the rain, which poured in torrents from the grey sky and soaked his uniform. When he'd put up his lighter, in the trenches, it had been a deliberate thing. The moment he'd chosen to do it was impulsive- but the thought of it- of escape from the ravages of war- had been with Thomas for a year at least, in some abstracted way, before he had actually gone through with it.

But Thomas's actions now were almost instinctual- he'd barely had time to thank Mrs. Patmore's perfectionism for the fact that he had a bit of coin about him- left over from the items he'd bought off of Mr. Bainborough- before he was using the money to buy a ticket.

"What route, sir?" The ticket-taker asked- and Thomas pointed at the train that even now sat idling in the depot. "Is that the train to London?"

The ticket taker nodded, and Thomas nodded in return. "That one, then." Anxiety made Thomas's voice clipped and his expressions rude, but he couldn't bring himself to care- and he snatched his ticket, and turned stiffly away- not _quite _running towards the train. _He must have gotten on this one,_ Thomas thought- _God I hope this is the right train-_

It was only Thomas's intention to get _on_ the train, find Jimmy, and drag him off- persuade him away from whatever rash thing he thought he was doing. Thomas, with anxiety spiking through his body, started deliberately in the last car- and began walking up through the train, his eyes scanning every passenger, even as they boarded.

Inside he felt both frightened and curiously elated- this was _bad_, very bad, and yet- and yet somehow Thomas could not have had a better confirmation of Jimmy's feelings for him. _He must love me very much, then,_ Thomas thought, _if he thinks the only way to escape his feelings is to run._

That could not be allowed- it was a vast and intimidating depth of feeling between them, yes, and Jimmy was undoubtedly in pain- more, Thomas believed, from some internal war that raged within him than from the actual experiences they'd shared- experiences which had been possessed of an- intensity- and a loveliness so deep it bordered, in Thomas's thinking, on divinity. But there was _work_ to be done, and Jimmy could not perform a dramatic vanishing act at this moment. Even now Thomas would have to come up with some excuse to explain Jimmy's temporary absence. _Thank god he did this after Carson left, and not before._

The conductor and the attendants were closing the doors - and Thomas still hadn't laid eyes on Jimmy. He was on the knife edge of a choice to be made- between leaving now, while he still had the chance, and finding Jimmy- and Thomas found that it was not even a question. His feet carried him past the closing doors, through another car. He felt a flash of panic- at the thought that Jimmy might somehow have gotten on another train, although there had been no others at the little depot.

The whistle on the train sounded, and they began to roll along the tracks- and Thomas scanned the seats, not seeing Jimmy anywhere. _I'll never see him again,_ Thomas thought- and the thought overwhelmed him, making his throat feel as if it were shutting. But then- as he stepped into the next car- he saw Jimmy's back- Jimmy was situated at the very front end of the car, facing away from Thomas- but it was _him_, it was him- and Thomas's shoulders slumped in relief. Thomas knew that logically he had not seen Jimmy's face- and he should wonder if it was, in fact, Jimmy at _all_- or if he was just chasing phantoms. But he could not bring himself to question his own judgement. _Obviously _it was Jimmy- who sat with his head down, looking at something Thomas could not see.

Thomas drew surreptitious glances from the passengers near to him- though everyone was polite enough to carefully avert their eyes when Thomas glanced 'round, he could feel curiosity directed his way. _Because of my cut-up face,_ Thomas thought. And he was dressed fully in his uniform: a traveling, bruised butler with no valise.

Thomas meant to approach Jimmy- but the train clattered away down the tracks, picking up speed- and Thomas hesitated- and sat at the back of the car, against the window. There was a decent chance that Jimmy would create a scene if cornered- and Thomas would be forced to let him go; he had no legal hold over Jimmy. And once Jimmy was out of Thomas's sight he could go _anywhere_, anywhere at all. To the Continent maybe. Lost forever. _Is his state of mind really so bad, d'ya think, that he'd get the police involved if I tried to _speak_ to him?_

Thomas found he couldn't answer the question. He wasn't _certain_- he was never certain enough with Jimmy. He was only certain that Jimmy was afraid. _All those questions about the Lieutenant and his brother,_ Thomas mused- and then it struck him, so obvious that it was laughable: the _journal_, Jimmy had his _journal_, and what he meant to do with it was unclear but ominous. _Give it to the awful brother?_

Thomas watched as Jimmy took off his wet cap- even from the back of the car Thomas could see that Jimmy's hat and shoulders were soaking wet- and Jimmy's gold hair caught the light, more brilliant than anything else in the train-car. _There you are, _Thomas thought. His hand went to his pocket, and he withdrew a cigarette- but then thought better of it- the smell, familiar as it was, might make Jimmy turn around.

Outside the rain continued unrelentingly, as they sped through the countryside. The land had turned unexpectedly vibrant- a dark emerald green, against the diffused light of the clouds. _It's nearly Autumn and it looks like Spring,_ Thomas observed- there was a poem in that, too, maybe- though nothing could have inspired him now, he was much too keyed-up. The faintest mist touched the inside of the windowpane- and Thomas brought a finger to it, bringing away a droplet of water. _Must've cooled down outside_, Thomas thought- and in the middle of this mundane thought came a revelation, a powerful one: he didn't _care_ what Jimmy did with the blue book- so long he did not lose Jimmy himself. _Burn it, pitch it, give it away,_ Thomas said, internally. _But I can't lose you-_

Part of Thomas- the canny part- told him that he was being foolish yet again- being _terrible_- even- that he was even now chasing someone who clearly wanted to be as far away from him as possible. Following Jimmy. He was always following Jimmy. _Pursuing the object of your love, who desperately flees from you, that's not a hero's role-_ _that's the villain's bit._ However Thomas was of two minds about it- and the other part of him- he was self-aware enough to know that it was the lovesick part- said that he was _saving _Jimmy, from some lonely fate of Jimmy's own design.

_It's not just with wish of a lovelorn idiot, though_. Thomas had evidence to back this up- spotty evidence, from an unreliable source, yes- but he could read much in Jimmy's behavior. It had always been an area Thomas felt he was lacking in. People's motivations eluded Thomas sometimes- even if he found a weak spot and _pushed_, it felt like a lucky guess... or the good fortune of an intelligent person- not specifically _empathy,_ or anything. But Jimmy was different- Thomas, though he failed to see the whole picture, felt now that he could at least grasp the _fundamentals_ of the other man, with more aptitude than came naturally. Jimmy had begun to- to let himself _give_ in- these past two days. He had relaxed- he had _touched_ Thomas- and slept with him, in each of their rooms- he had even attempted jokes about his own previous reticence. _He seemed happy,_ Thomas thought- and he felt _bad_ for Jimmy- an emotional pain that settled over the ever-diminishing ache in his chest. _But then he realized... he realized he was letting his guard down-_

And the fear of it had swallowed Jimmy up, and made him look for a way out. That was it exactly. _Why should _he_ be so afraid of love?_ Thomas thought, sourly. _Much worse has happened to me, I'm sure, and yet I don't run from it, tail between my legs._ But that was unkind. There was something _wrong_, something in Jimmy's own head- some fear he couldn't get past. And Thomas _would_ have run from his feelings for Jimmy- it was simply too much, and too difficult- if he had been able to. But love and hope kept him tethered to Jimmy- painfully, helplessly, inexorably.

Lightning flashed, very close, and lit up the countryside- and then thunder clapped loudly overhead, making some passengers in the compartment gasp- but Jimmy did not turn- his attention stayed fixed on whatever he held. _My book. Probably._

The train made several stops- and the car filled up, as they got closer to London. A man in a grey hat sat next to Jimmy, but Jimmy did not even glance up in acknowledgement, and Thomas found himself sharing a bench with a harassed-looking couple and their sizable brood.

"What's the matter with that man's face, mummy?" A little girl asked, pointing at Thomas- who smirked, and averted his eyes to the rainy landscape beyond the windowpane.

"Hush, _Elizabeth_," The woman said- and Thomas lost himself to his endless string of thoughts again, glancing between Jimmy's back and the window, until they were in London.

Now Thomas was worried- Jimmy could be taking another train, or he could lose himself in the streets- and as the train came to a slow halt in London Station, Jimmy rose, and stood close by the door. Thomas was stuck behind Elizabeth's family- and his body tensed- he rose to his feet as the doors opened and the orderly queue of passengers pushed forward- though it was so crowded that several people elected to remain sitting, until the car had cleared out somewhat. Thomas, ignoring all the niceties of being a passenger, climbed atop the bench, and stepped over it, into the next row- and then the next, stepping onto empty spaces on the wooden seats. Several people gave Thomas bizarre looks- and shifted in their spots, to put space between themselves and him- until he found an area on the ground that gave him a clear path to the door.

At that moment- of course at _that_ moment- Jimmy, as he exited, elected to turn and glance back at the cabin, though he hadn't done so for hours- and his eyes met Thomas's. It seemed to happen slowly- Thomas almost had time to laugh, at the comical look of surprise that spread across Jimmy's face- and then Jimmy whirled around, very quickly, and walked straight out the door.

"Damn it to hell," Thomas said, under his breath- and he pushed rudely past a few people, throwing his elbows out- and darted off the train himself.

It was too thick with _people _in the station- Thomas could not see where Jimmy had gone, though Jimmy had only a few seconds advantage on him- and Thomas whirled around, looking quickly from face to face.

_Where's he goin'- think quick, where would he go-_ Thomas's mind buzzed with nervous energy- and his footsteps carried him aimlessly, into the central room of the station, where dozens upon dozens of people waited- at ticket booths, or on long wooden seats, with their luggage and umbrellas spread out about them. Thomas looked them all up and down, walking in circles around the room- he looked at the queues of travelers, all waiting for tickets to their particular destinations- and he saw no sign of Jimmy. _He's gone into the city, then,_ Thomas thought, feeling his heart stutter in his chest. Suddenly his injuries seemed terribly painful, as if they were leaching every bit of strength out of him. _He's gone, gone_-

And then- just as Thomas felt that he would weep- he caught a glimpse of Jimmy, speaking to a ticket-taker- he had been obscured from sight by a tall woman who stood just behind him, in a bright violet frock. Thomas stepped up beside the front of the crowd, garnering looks of irritation from the people waiting, and sidled up to Jimmy, just as he stepped away.

"Excuse me," The large woman in the violet dress said- "You can't step in-"

"I'm not," Thomas snapped- and Jimmy walked right into him, and halted, blinking furiously. "Oh- Mr. Barrow," Jimmy said, as if they had just passed one another in the hall- "There you are-"

"Come here," Thomas said, furiously waving his hand- and he led Jimmy round to the far side of the counters, where there was an empty spot, with only a stone pillar and the occasional passerby.

Jimmy, to Thomas's surprise, did not bolt away- he faced Thomas, his expression almost totally neutral. _You can't fool me,_ Thomas thought, watching Jimmy's left hand- the hand not wrapped tightly around his valise- and how it shook.

"I'm so glad to see you here," Jimmy said, nonchalantly- and he pushed his hair back from his forehead. "I'm going to Cornwall. I've gotten you a ticket, too," Jimmy added, looking guilelessly into Thomas's eyes- "If you'd like to come along."

"What?" Thomas asked, blankly- and Jimmy frowned back at him, as if Thomas were a bit dense. "If you would like to accompany me-" Jimmy began, again- and suddenly Thomas experienced a curious feeling. It all fell upon Thomas- Jimmy's anger, his blank nonchalance, the mask with which he faced the world- the way he had even now jeopardized both of their jobs- and Thomas, surprised at himself, realized that he was about to lose his temper.

"No I don't want to 'accompany' you to bloody _Cornwall,_" Thomas said, angrily- his tone came out more cutting than he had intended it to be- but it felt _good_. When wronged Thomas was typically inclined more to plots of revenge and to sadness than to overwhelming _anger_- but now he felt wrath like a cleansing fire, burning through him, and laying waste to all of his anxiety.

"Haven't you ever for a moment thought about anyone besides yourself?" Thomas spat- and he took a step towards Jimmy, who shrunk back against the nearest pillar, his face going utterly white. "You want to run away from me- but- you want me to come along, as well? This is _stupid_- this- when you have- when you've found somebody who bloody _loves_ you despite the fact that you're- that _you're_-"

Jimmy, his features darkening, tried to speak: "Now listen," Jimmy said, lowly- but Thomas talked above him. "You're a coward and an _idiot_- and a thief- and I don't _care_ about any of that- but _this _is really too much- we could be _fired_-" Thomas went on, holding his fingers up one at a time, as he spouted off points in his disjointed litany of Jimmy's transgressions.

"I'm not an idiot," Jimmy retorted, hotly, and Thomas laughed, helplessly.

"You're a coward, though," Thomas said, leaning down, so that he looked directly into Jimmy's face- he could feel his expression fixing into an exaggerated look of contempt- "-aren't you, Jimmy? Scared because you're like _me_? Or scared because you _love_ me-"

It was a line too far- or perhaps a shot too close to the mark- and Jimmy's face screwed up in utter rage, the change so sudden that Thomas took a step back from him.

"You go to _hell_, you stupid lavender bastard pouf-" Jimmy said, in a strange singsong of insults- and he stepped forward into Thomas's space- and _struck_ out at him, with one tightly balled fist. Jimmy's hand connected with the sorest spot on Thomas's side- and as Thomas stumbled back, taking a sharp breath at the vivid pain, Jimmy advanced on Thomas- and the valise slid from Jimmy's grasp- perhaps deliberately- dropping to the floor and spilling open. Out came clothing and papers- and toiletries- all crammed into the space- and a gleam of blue. Out of the corner of his eye Thomas could just see the cover of his blue journal- but Jimmy looked only at Thomas- and Thomas watched, unable to look away, as Jimmy raised both his fists slowly, his face a pallid mask, devoid of anything except ill intent. "You _bastard, _come on then, you _bastard- c_ome on, if you want to _fight_," Jimmy said, setting his jaw- and he darted forward, as if he would hit Thomas again- but Thomas turned to the side, backstepping the assault- and Jimmy whirled around, advancing on him once more. "I'll show _you_ what I bloody well _am_," Jimmy snarled- his hair tumbled into his face, and he _charged_ at Thomas, lowering his head- and Thomas, feeling the stone pillar at his back, grabbed Jimmy's shoulders, pushing Jimmy backwards as roughly as he could. Jimmy stumbled away, his body slumping, as if in defeat.

"I- I don't _want _to fight-" Thomas said, taking a careful step towards Jimmy- who was half bent over, his hands on his knees and his face obscured. "You just need to get ahold of yourself-" Thomas went on, trying to keep his tone calm. At this Jimmy's head snapped up- and he ran at Thomas again, striking at his chest and sides- until they both collided with the pillar. Thomas banged his skull painfully against the stone, and saw stars for a moment- and he gripped on to Jimmy's lapels, temporarily blinded, and tried again to shove Jimmy away from himself. Jimmy fought back with an astonishing ferocity- and Thomas dodged a blow to his shoulder, bending away from Jimmy's fists.

"You _bastard _you stupid _bastard_-" Jimmy said- he was spitting out his words, through lips that were drawn frighteningly away from his teeth- and he landed a particularly painful blow to Thomas's abdomen, making Thomas lose his breath for a moment. "_Aagh_ for _godsakes _Jimmy-" Thomas said, trying desperately to sound reasonable- though he could scarcely draw a lungful of air-

"_S-stop_ for god's sakes I don't want to _fight_ you-" Thomas pleaded- he exerted every ounce of his strength- and wrestled Jimmy's arms back, twisting his body, so that it was Jimmy who was trapped against the pillar. Jimmy surged forward, shoving Thomas with his own chest as if the building was burning, and Jimmy had to escape or die- with Thomas his only obstacle to freedom. But Thomas held on to Jimmy, grimly determined, against the onslaught- and Jimmy pressed up against him, twisting and turning furiously, spitting out vicious epithets all the while. "_Show_ you- you stupid_ arse_, you _lousy_- you awful_ fool-_ you _sad- _you pathetic bloody_ moron_-" Jimmy ground out, half-yelling in a garbled tone. Jimmy shoved forward again, from where Thomas had pinioned his arms, trying to knock Thomas's hold on him loose with the force of his body alone. Thomas felt, against his body, as Jimmy tried to push past him, that Jimmy had an erection. Thomas could feel Jimmy's arousal distinctly- in the press of Jimmy's body against his- but Jimmy's face did not alter from a rictus sneer of anger. _God,_ Thomas thought- the thought went on slowly, even as Jimmy managed to twist himself out of one arm of his suitjacket-_ he's so twisted up inside, he doesn't even know-_

Jimmy, with one arm free, tried to spin away from Thomas's clutches- and when Thomas gripped his arm again Jimmy slammed his heel down onto Thomas's instep, as hard he could, making Thomas yelp in pain, and drop both of his hands.

"I'll show you," Jimmy said, flatly, raising his fists again- and for a moment Thomas peered right into Jimmy's face, which should have been flushed red from all the exertion of the fight, but was grey as rainclouds. With a cry Jimmy lunged forward, swinging his fists at Thomas- and Thomas, operating purely on reflex, reached out- and slapped Jimmy as hard as he could, across the face.

Jimmy's head snapped to the side, and a wave of pain- and then a tingling numbness- spread through Thomas's right hand, making him unclench and reclose his fist, at the discomfort. Jimmy went still in his tracks- his head still turned away, in the recoil of being hit so hard.

They were both too out-of-breath to speak for an instant, and they stood, gasping. Thomas lowered his head, internally cataloging his injuries- they weren't terrible, despite his weakened state. Jimmy remained still, though his chest heaved up and down, looking out at the crowded room- and Thomas looked as well, lest someone had taken an interest in their private drama, and called the police over.

"You'll have the bobbies on us soon," Thomas managed, unsteadily- and Jimmy turned to gaze at him. A handprint, starkly outlined, showed up obviously on Jimmy's cheek- and partway across his mouth. Thomas saw that he had split Jimmy's lip open, with the force of his hand- he watched the cut begin to well up with crimson, as blood rushed to it. Jimmy himself looked at if he could weep- his eyes were bright, anyhow, with tears- from the sting of being struck. With one shaking hand, Jimmy reached up to his own mouth- and winced at the injury there- but Jimmy's eyes did not leave Thomas's.

Thomas felt guilt crash through him in a wave, dissipating all of his anger- it was _inexcusable _to hurt Jimmy in such a way- no matter how provoked. In Thomas's head he heard his mother's voice, called up from childhood, telling him gravely how he must _never _raise a hand to anyone he loved, how it was a grave sin against man and womankind, as well as against God. "I'm sorry, my love," Thomas said- and he gently grasped Jimmy's shoulder. It was the most he could manage in sight of anyone who cared to look- who had probably just looked on as they'd fought- but Thomas wanted to comfort Jimmy, to apologize- to rub his fingers against Jimmy's brow and soothe away the lines of anguish that lay there. "I'm very sorry- that wasn't right-"

"_You're_ apologizing to _me_," Jimmy said, sounding numb- and his bloodied mouth twisted suddenly.

"You're havin' a bad patch, and that's all right," Thomas said, gripping Jimmy's other shoulder. "That's all right. I think everybody's entitled to at least one in their lives."

Thomas saw how Jimmy's face relaxed, when Thomas touched him- and how Jimmy leaned into the pressure of Thomas's hands. "I'm... Thomas... I'm very-" Jimmy began unsteadily, sounding as if he were in a daze- but then he broke off, his eyes widening at something behind Thomas- and Thomas felt a tap on his shoulder.

Thomas dropped his hands from Jimmy's shoulders immediately, and turned around, coming face to face with a uniformed policeman.

"Havin' a bit of a row, boys?" The bobby said, gruffly- and Thomas looked into the man's face- and answered, smoothly. "I'm very sorry, Officer. My friend lost his head- but he's all right now."

"I'm sorry," Jimmy echoed shakily, coming to stand by him. "I'm alright. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make a scene-"

"His sister," Thomas said to the officer- who nodded, though he did not look entirely convinced. Thomas thought that perhaps his own bruised face was not helping his credibility, but he drew himself up, doing his best impression of Mr. Carson, and went on. "She died suddenly."

"This morning," Jimmy added- and for a moment he and Thomas glanced sidelong at one another- partners in duplicity as they were- and, though the situation was dire, still Thomas felt his heart skip in his chest.

"Well I'm very sorry to hear it," The policeman said, looking between them, "but you still can't brawl in the station."

"I'm sorry," Jimmy repeated- and Thomas kept himself from breathing an audible sigh of relief- he could see that the bobby had decided to let them go. "Don't go at it again, or I'll arrest the both of you, family death or no," the man said, brandishing a finger at them sternly. "And pick that up," he added- and Jimmy nodded- and bent to the ground, to gather the spilled contents of his valise.

"Thank you, sir," Thomas said, with as much courtesy as he could muster- and the policeman barked out a short laugh, and turned away. "A fightin' butler, I never have seen that," the officer said, as he went.

"He's over there but he's still looking at us," Thomas said, when the policeman was a safe distance from them. Thomas squatted down, wincing at the ache in his ribs and the new pain in his foot- and helped Jimmy to gather up his things- he watched as Jimmy tucked the journal into his own coat pocket, before pushing his clothes back into the case.

"Can we go home now?" Thomas asked- and Jimmy looked at him sharply- and then shook his head, a terse _no_.

"I'm going to Mevagissey," Jimmy said- and Thomas glanced up at him, confused. "_What_? Why?" Thomas asked- and then he groaned, at Jimmy's guilty look. "Is this to do with Jack Courten-"

"Jack Courtenay. Right, yes," Jimmy said, nodding. Jimmy folded one of his shirts with an expert hand- though the rest he had stuffed into the case haphazardly- and when Thomas held out a comb to Jimmy he accepted it, and dropped it carelessly into the valise.

"What d'ya want with him?" Thomas asked- and Jimmy rose to his feet, brushing off his suit- Thomas followed him, standing with a grimace. "Did I- did I _hurt _you?" Jimmy asked, his brow creasing- and Thomas shook his head, making his tone light. "No," Thomas said, following Jimmy, as they strode back towards the trains, away from the policeman's watchful gaze.

Thomas, now that his head had stopped spinning, found his cigarettes- and offered Jimmy one. "Here, take this," Thomas said- and passed Jimmy his handkerchief, as well. "For your mouth."

"Oh. Thank you," Jimmy said, quietly- and he pressed the cloth to his cut, wiping the blood from his lips with a pained expression.

Thomas waited a moment, making sure Jimmy seemed quite in his right mind- and then he lit his cigarette, and raised an eyebrow. "You're lucky I stepped into your fight, at the fair, because you wouldn't've fared very well-"

"Oh, go to hell," Jimmy retorted- but he didn't look angry- he glanced up at Thomas, cautiously. "Will you come with me?"

"I don't understand why we have to _go_ there," Thomas replied, in his most reasonable tones. "Is it- are you tryin' to give him back the Lieutenant's _journal_, is that it?"

Jimmy fixed his gaze on the ground, holding the unlit cigarette in his fingertips, and nodded.

"_Jimmy_," Thomas said, taking a risk and hoping that his words would not drive Jimmy into another rage- "If you want me to tell you that I'd choose you over a book- of _course_ I would."

"It's not _any _book," Jimmy muttered.

"I would choose you over _that_ book, the Lieutenant's book," Thomas said- there were people about them now, coming and going to various destinations, and so Thomas lowered his voice to a whisper. "I want you to come home with me. I _love _you."

"I'm sorry," Jimmy said- and Thomas saw that Jimmy had an expression of determination on his face. "I have to do this. I have to give him the book. He's waiting for me- and I have to do it anyways. For _closure_."

"He's _waiting_- what?" Thomas asked. They had come to the train that ran outwards, to the coast- and now they both stood before it.

"Closure isn't the right word, maybe," Jimmy said. He wouldn't meet Thomas's eyes. "But I have to do it. It's very important."

Thomas took a long drag from his cigarette, and blew out the smoke. He brought one hand to his temple and rubbed at a spot of tension there, looking at how Jimmy braced himself, as if waiting for a blow.

"If I try to drag you bodily onto the train to Downton, will you make another scene?" Thomas asked, after a pause- and Jimmy nodded, pulling his shoulders up. "I think so," Jimmy said, in a small voice- but then Jimmy seemed to draw upon some inner wellspring of strength- and he looked straight into Thomas's eyes. "Will you come with me?" Jimmy asked- he asked it a bit too loudly, as if he could not quite control his voice.

The longer they stayed out- and the further they traveled from Downton- the greater Thomas's chances of not being able to salvage the situation- of losing his job- and Jimmy's- in the process. Thomas knew all of this, of course- he knew that he was being quite ridiculous, chasing this man all over the country- but then he looked at Jimmy in front of him- handsome- _beyond _handsome- and well-coiffed- and outwardly so prickly, so detached- and yet- and yet somehow so _vulnerable_-

Jimmy regarded him, his mouth drawn across his face in a straight line, the red line of his split lip as decisive as an arrow. _This is a test, too,_ Thomas thought. _Make sure you pass._

"Fine. Yes," Thomas said, with a sigh- and Jimmy's mouth curved up, into a half-smile. "I think it's a terrible idea, however-"

"Yes, that's wonderful," Jimmy said, happily- and he set his valise down, fumbling around in his pocket, until he produced a pair of tickets. "There you are," Jimmy intoned- and handed Thomas his own ticket. Their fingers bumped together, but Jimmy did not draw his hand back overly quickly.

"We should go if we're going to," Thomas said, pitching his cigarette- and he and Jimmy boarded the train.

"But after _this_ we're going home," Thomas said, as they walked through the cars, looking for a place to sit. The train to Cornwall was much emptier than the train to London had been- and people were dressed to go on holiday instead of in the dour colors of going-to-work.

"Yes. Directly after," Jimmy said, from in front of him. Finally Jimmy picked a car that was nearly devoid of other passengers- and Thomas slid onto the bench after him. They were at the back of the car- alone- and Jimmy still toyed with the unlit cigarette in his hand.

"I hope you didn't tell the awful brother who it was that stole the blue book," Thomas said. To his surprise Jimmy sat very close to him, letting their legs press together.

"No, o'course not," Jimmy answered. "I said I found it."

"I don't much fancy the idea of him readin' all my wretched poems," Thomas said- and Jimmy nodded. "I thought I'd cut out those pages," Jimmy said. "But I couldn't bring myself to-"

Jimmy looked up at Thomas again, very gravely- and then, with some solemnity, he drew the blue book from within his jacket pocket. Thomas could feel the tremor that worked through Jimmy, making even the muscles of Jimmy's thigh shake where it rested against Thomas's leg.

"I'm not going to take it from you," Thomas said, quietly- and Jimmy flushed, a little- at _that_, though he hadn't turned red during their fight. _Strange, you're very strange,_ Thomas thought- but he met Jimmy's eyes. "I promise. I'll never do anything you don't want me to."

Jimmy turned a darker shade of crimson- but he nodded- and tucked the cigarette he held behind his ear. With shaking fingers Jimmy rested the book between them, so that the front cover was on Jimmy's leg- the back cover on Thomas's- and Jimmy flicked through the pages of the book, stopping on the very last page that bore writing.

"This-" Jimmy said, not looking at Thomas- "-this is my favorite of all." With one hand Jimmy traced the lines on the page- and Thomas watched his fingers, transfixed, for a moment, by Jimmy's beauty. Even the appeal of Jimmy's _hands _was enough to drive Thomas to distraction- and he realized it had been some moments since he had said anything at all, and so he hastily replied- "Well. That's the latest one, isn't it. Perhaps I've been improving."

Thomas could not keep the displeasure- or the incredulity, at the idea of his own words being things of beauty- out of his tone- and Jimmy's head ticked up, as if he were offended.

"This one is _profound_," Jimmy said, insistently. "I see what you mean by it, you know."

"Wonderful," Thomas said, dryly- but Jimmy wiped absently at the cut on his mouth that Thomas had put there- and asked, in an undertone: "Won't you read it? Please?"

"_No_, god," Thomas said, shaking his head. "We're in public."

"They can't hear us," Jimmy said, indicating the passengers at the far front of the car. The train had begun to move, robbing Thomas of all hope that he could dissuade Jimmy away from his plan.

"Please," Jimmy said, heavily- and Thomas smirked at the import of Jimmy's tone- and examined the book page. He could feel anticipation coming off of Jimmy in waves- and Thomas cleared his throat significantly, pausing.

"Get _on_ with it, won't you?" Jimmy said, jostling Thomas impatiently.

"_Ah_, don't shove me," Thomas groused- and Jimmy looked ashamed. "I'm sorry," Jimmy said, immediately. "It was awful of me to go after you. I know you're not well."

"_You're_ not well," Thomas shot back, before he could stop himself- and Jimmy scowled- but after a moment Jimmy nodded, looking worried- and Thomas felt poorly, at having made light of Jimmy's distress. "Alright, fine, here we go," Thomas said- and he scanned the page.

"Oh, one loved _love_, and one loved only _fear_," Thomas read, in a half-whisper- and as he read he was taken back, to the first night Jimmy had been in his bed- when Jimmy had begged him for the words, the words from this poem- the words that had calmed Jimmy enough so that he could find release. The memory was painfully erotic- but it was _emotional_, too, very moving- and Thomas struggled to keep his voice even.

"-and one held some specific temple dear," Thomas went on, noting how still Jimmy had gone beside him-

"And I loved him, and _him_, and his love, too  
and I confess in many ways I knew  
That evening, that I should have said- and _you_!  
I love you, too! And _you_!  
-Although it was a morbid admiration.

Oh, you seem sad, and you seem kind-  
or quite remote, and dark of mind-  
The spark, I hope, will leave us blind-  
Without that rope, those apprehensions fade.

This starblown place- where they have met before  
When pouring through a month of many moons  
they conversed on a snowstorm, or a park  
and shared some thoughts, and idly moved their spoons  
against the cups of coffee they had bought-

Oh, a building or a gunshot in the dark!  
A thousand roses, mailed out on a lark-  
those _yellow_ roses, yes, that met their mark-  
Or pearls that dropped like rain in many worlds,  
and petals that traverse some hands and lips.

These things discussed: a bomb, a flight of stairs-  
Immortals, they are distant from our cares-  
Mere mortals, we are shackled to our truths-  
immoral man, a citadel, a roof-  
A life I lived, too young for any proof-  
A force above, a _pinnacle_, a _spire_-  
the long walk back, evading heart's desire-  
Or a strong back, or courage under fire-  
and yet these things are meaningless to us."

When Thomas had finished he shut the book, feeling ridiculous- and glanced over at Jimmy, who stared at him, transfixed, with his lips slightly parted. Jimmy's cheeks were pink- and under Thomas's scrutiny Jimmy took a breath, and swallowed audibly.

"That one's my favorite," Jimmy said, again. "I know what you mean by that one. I do." Jimmy's tone was muted and his voice rather unsteady- and as Thomas watched, Jimmy crossed and uncrossed his legs, shifting on the seat.

"There's so much Eliot in there it's scarcely mine," Thomas returned, trying valiantly to ignore Jimmy's state- and, to Thomas's surprise, the hazy look of desire that had come over Jimmy's face vanished- and he scowled, snatching up the journal.

"Eliot?' Jimmy asked, harshly. "Who's _Eliot_, then?"

Thomas laughed aloud, and clapped his hand over his mouth. Jimmy stared at him all the while, looking put-out. "_Not_ my lover, so don't worry," Thomas managed, through his laughter- and Jimmy relaxed, leaning back against the bench. "Good," Jimmy muttered.

The rain was letting up, as they moved further away from London- and for a moment, despite his nerves and his constant worry about what he could possibly say to Mrs. Hughes to explain his sudden disappearance- Thomas felt an odd thrill- a thrill that hearkened back to childhood. He was on an adventure with the man he loved- rather like a fairytale.

"What did you think, just now?" Jimmy asked, from Thomas's side. "You smiled to yourself."

"I'm not always thinking something _interesting_, y'know," Thomas said, and Jimmy scoffed.

"Yes, you are," Jimmy replied- and he leaned back further again the bench, his shoulder resting against Thomas's. "I'm goin' to shut my eyes for a moment," Jimmy said- and Thomas nodded- and checked to make sure there were no eyes upon him- and then he ran his hand through Jimmy's hair, once, drawing a smile from Jimmy as he did it.

"Don't _do_ that, d'ya want to go to prison?" Jimmy asked, without opening his eyes- but he smiled, at Thomas's touch.

"Mmm, in prison we could share a room," Thomas murmured, and Jimmy laughed, tiredly.

"We'll just see Jack the Junior Behaviorist," Jimmy said- "-an' give him the book- and then- and then..."

But Jimmy did not finish his sentence. He was silent for a while, and Thomas thought he had fallen asleep- but then Jimmy said, in a undertone- "Thank you. For giving me back my cards."

"Your- oh. Been in my room again, I see," Thomas answered, softly, and Jimmy nodded, with his eyes still shut.

"I was sayin' goodbye," Jimmy said, quietly- and though Jimmy's eyes were closed Thomas could still read upon his face signs of distress. "I'm glad you found me, though," Jimmy added. "I'm very glad."

"I'm glad, too," Thomas said- and his chest felt so tight that for a moment it was hard to get a breath. Thomas reached down, well out of view of anyone curious, and stroked fingertips against Jimmy's palm- and Jimmy smiled, and said nothing else- but he left his hand there, for Thomas to touch, if he chose to.

After a few moments more Jimmy drifted off, and he slumped to the side, his head against Thomas's arm. Thomas himself could not sleep- but he felt an odd peace settle over him- like a sudden deluge over a sun-baked country- and he sat, for a long time, with his arm across the back of the bench- holding Jimmy as much as decorum would allow. _Here we go, off into the unknown,_ Thomas thought- and around the train the clouds rolled slowly away, letting spots of sunlight in.


	12. Chapter 12

Jimmy was woken from a dream where he wandered through a wood- with invisible fingers snatching idly at his clothes. At first it was a nightmare, and the hands and branches clutched at Jimmy with ill intent- but by the time Thomas shook him awake it had only been a dream, and Jimmy had been led carefully though the forest, by many silent guides.

"We're here," Thomas said- and Jimmy shook his head, trying to clear away from his thoughts the last remnants of the dream. Thomas was regarding him with an expression of concern. Jimmy could _see_ the concern, touching Thomas's brow and the edges of his mouth- and Jimmy wondered when he had become so adept at reading the tone of Thomas's moods. _Proximity, and nothing else,_ Jimmy thought- but it _was_ something else- and he was increasingly less able to deny it.

"Y'alright?" Thomas asked- and Jimmy nodded, pressing his lips together- and the winced, at the sting. _Oh, right, the fight,_ Jimmy thought- and he blushed- at the memory of his own ludicrous behavior. _Attacking an already-injured man, who was injured defending you,_ Jimmy thought- and as they exited the train, queuing up behind slow- moving passengers, Jimmy felt a great wash of shame. The emotion was as unfamiliar to him as abject lust had been a week before- and he caught his breath at it. Thomas stood in front of him, in the narrow aisle of the train-car- and Jimmy, for a moment, pressed his free hand flat against the small of Thomas's back.

Thomas turned to him, a look of concern evident on his features. "What?" Thomas asked- and Jimmy gripped his valise more tightly in one hand, and looked at the uninteresting floor. "Nothin'," Jimmy muttered, and kept his eyes averted, until Thomas turned back around.

The man at the ticket-booth spoke to them with decided displeasure when Jimmy asked for directions to The Harcourt Institute- which was, he said, about a kilometer out of the town proper.

"That bloke thought we were barmy," Jimmy said, to Thomas, as they stepped out onto the streets of the town. In Mevagissey it was not raining- but the roads were still damp, and a cool breeze blew from across the sea, as if here the storm had already passed through. "Nice weather," Jimmy added. For the first time in ages he didn't feel overly warm, and he sighed at the pleasure of it.

"Of course he did, we're all cut-up and you just asked him for directions to a sanitarium," Thomas answered- and he lit a cigarette. They looked out over the bay- the town was picturesque, with brightly-painted boats adorning the water and old stone buildings shaping the streets.

"I don't know if it's a sanitarium," Jimmy said. "Give us a cigarette, won't you?"

Thomas complied- and produced his silver lighter from the inner pocket of his uniform. Jimmy inclined his head, to the flame- and then looked back up at Thomas, who stood, in his rumpled suit, with his hair in disarray, regarding the ocean. "Great Poet discovers the Sea," Jimmy said, in a low voice. "Many ocean-themed poems to follow."

"Oh, shut your mouth," Thomas said- but he smirked- and the gestured, with his cigarette. "There's Fore Street."

"Fore Street turns into Polkirt Hill," Jimmy added, reciting the directions. "Right."

"Wait," Thomas commanded, as Jimmy took a step away. "You have money?"

"I have _all_ of my money," Jimmy said, shaking his valise, for emphasis, and Thomas nodded. "Good. Spot me some for lunch, I'm starved."

Jimmy had thought he wouldn't ever be able to eat again- but at Thomas's words his own stomach made a protesting sound- and he realized it was well past lunchtime. "Fine, fine," Jimmy grumbled. "But quickly, though. And you'd better pay me back. What can you get in a place like this, anyhow?"

"Fish and chips," Thomas said, dryly.

They got exactly that at a shop, and walked away up the hill with their meals, wrapped in cones of newspaper. Jimmy felt a terrible anxiety- and an equally terrible urgency- at the prospect of returning the journal- and yet the streets were so pretty, and Thomas such a fine companion, that it gave Jimmy a curious feeling of ease.

"I feel as if we're on holiday," Jimmy said, as the strode up the gradual incline of Polkirt Hill, which would take them away from the town proper- and Thomas laughed, and stole a chip from Jimmy's hand. "Hey, you already _had_ your own," Jimmy protested- and Thomas laughed again, and popped the chip into his mouth. In his uniform and against the backdrop of the outdoors Thomas seemed very exotic- a rogue, a stranger in ordinary lands. Thomas smiled at Jimmy now- with his own _specific_ smile- that smile that could be effortlessly affectionate or unpleasant, with only the barest alteration of Thomas's lips.

"Yes, I start all my holidays by fighting my lover in a public place, running away from my job without warning, and visiting a madhouse," Thomas said. "It's invigorating. Good for the heart. I ought to live to the ripe old age of thirty-three, at this rate."

But Jimmy was still caught on _'lover'_- was that was Thomas thought? That they were- _lovers_? Chained to one another in some inescapable, emotional way? _No, we can't be,_ Jimmy told himself, internally. _We haven't even- and I was going to leave him-_

"_Stop_," Thomas said, with surprising vehemence- and Jimmy pulled himself up short, not taking another step on the road. "What?" Jimmy asked- and Thomas shook his head, frowning. "Not stop _walking._ Whatever you're thinking about, _stop_. Y'need to give it a rest. You'll kill yourself with worrying."

"But I..." Jimmy floundered about- and he could think of nothing at all to say- so he put a chip in his mouth, and chewed, thoughtfully. Jimmy had looped the handle of his valise around his wrist to keep both hands free- it hung off of his arm like the world's largest bracelet- and now he tapped the case against his own leg. Thomas nodded at him, with one eyebrow up. "That's right. Keep quiet and eat your lunch."

"Oh, stuff it," Jimmy said, through a mouthful of food- the salt stung his split lip, but Jimmy was so hungry he couldn't bring himself to care- and Thomas grinned. "You stuff it. For all your torment- has one bad thing happened? _Any_ bad thing?"

"Well... we might lose our jobs," Jimmy said, consideringly- and Thomas's mouth actually _dropped_ open- he was as shocked as Jimmy had ever seen him be. "You're really-" Thomas began- and then Jimmy laughed- and Thomas only shook his head, and used his free hand to smooth back his hair. "You're _mad,_" Thomas said- and he wadded up the paper his food had been in, and pitched it unceremoniously in to the woods.

"No," Jimmy said- and he threw his paper after Thomas's. "I just had a- a turn or something- but I'm all right now." Jimmy _meant_ it, too- the pressing fright of the morning- and his panic from the evening before-seemed a distant dream, further away even than Downton itself.

Thomas was lighting a cigarette- he looked over at Jimmy as they walked, and Jimmy read some form of consideration on Thomas's face.

"What is it?" Jimmy prompted, when Thomas was silent for moments more, and Thomas shook his head slowly- and flexed his gloved hand, as if he'd had a cramp.

"You _vex _me," Thomas said, lowly- and Jimmy felt his stomach flutter. "Ah- I _know_," Jimmy said, turning his face away from Thomas's gaze- but Thomas said: "No. Not like that. Well- _yes_, like _that_, but- that isn't what I meant."

"What d'ya mean, then?" Jimmy asked- and Thomas shrugged- but still he regarded Jimmy with that same curious intensity, so pronounced that Jimmy felt his eyes unwillingly drift again to Thomas's face. Thomas took a breath- and his jaw worked, for a moment, though he remained silent.

"Well, _tell _me," Jimmy prompted. Absentmindedly Jimmy checked his pocket, to feel that his blue book was still there- and Thomas sighed, bringing his cigarette to his lips. "Jimmy," Thomas said, lightly- and Jimmy stopped walking, and faced him. They stood still together, alone on the country road- and Thomas shut his eyes, frowning, and said- "I... you seem _alright_, y'know, when we're alone together. Just us. But then I- I get the feeling that you go away- when we're apart, and think dark thoughts- and you get very- _angry_- or upset- and you do mad things. They _are _mad things- and- and I- even now I'm a bit worried you'll fly off the handle, just at me sayin' this-"

"No. I- I won't," Jimmy said. _Could it really be true? Do I come off so poorly?_ Jimmy thought- and he had a moment of uneasy clarity- the day with the oranges- how he'd practically _begged_ Thomas to use his hands- or- his _mouth_- and then stormed off- how he'd gone to Thomas's room- how he'd stolen Thomas's things- how he'd spoken sweetly to Thomas the afternoon before, and caressed him- and then run away this very morning- and tried to beat Thomas half to death-

"And I wanted to tell you," Thomas was saying rather gravely- he was leaning forward, with his mouth almost against Jimmy's ear-"That you needn't _run_, if you feel- ah- _anxiety_ at any hour of the day- you can come to me- I _love _you and I- you can speak with me- about- oh, anything- anything that frightens you-"

Jimmy felt a curious pain at his temples- and he was torn- between an uncomfortable moment of self-revelation- and the pressing knowledge that Thomas was so _close_ to him; that Thomas, often so smooth and well-spoken, was rendered inarticulate in his desire to be sincere.

"And if your- your black moods come over you," Thomas went on, quietly, "You shouldn't feel as if you must get _away_ from me- I'm _here,_ I want to be _kind_ to you-"

In his head Jimmy found, suddenly, the words of the dead Lieutenant Courtenay:

_Though I am still not certain how you think producing a few drawings or fragments of ill-constructed poetry will help me with my black moods-_

_-It's blackness, all blackness, and my ill temper wraps around me like a shroud-_

Jimmy wanted to back away, to shake his head, to _flee_, in abject denial, and he thought, desperately, _No please it's always been my game and I've played it don't take away control from me now-_

But Jimmy clenched one trembling hand into a fist and instead pressed a kiss to Thomas's cheek- it was a rough kiss, he practically mashed his lips to Thomas's face- and then he took a hasty step back, looking up and down the empty road. Thomas blinked at him, a slight blush evident upon his cheeks and bridge of his nose- and Jimmy tapped his fingers against his own wrists. "I appreciate that," Jimmy said, after an age or more. His voice sounded quite strained in his own ears. "But I don't have 'black moods'."

"Yes, you do," Thomas said, lowly- and he took another long drag from his cigarette. After a moment they started walking again- and Jimmy let his shoulder bump against Thomas's.

"I shall be sorry to say goodbye to our book," Jimmy said, eager to redirect the conversation- and he pulled the journal from his pocket, admiring the way the cover of it shone in the daylight.

"There's still time to turn around," Thomas offered, glibly, sounding much composed. The painful edge of earnestness was gone from Thomas's voice, and he was _Thomas_-sounding again, smooth as anything and twice as dry as Merlot. Jimmy sighed, only half in discontent- and opened the book, shaking his head in a silent _no_.

"I don't know how you can say _I've _got all these _moods_," Jimmy said, tracing the pages he'd opened to with one finger. "Look at yourself, won't you? For example, we have page _A-_" Here Jimmy tapped the left-hand page. "An' it's quite romantic, really, full of a pretty love song about- _me_, perhaps- I'm almost sure it's about me-"

"Not necessarily," Thomas said, sounding put-out. He made to peer over Jimmy's shoulder- but Jimmy leaned away, laughing. "This one's- back _off_, Thomas- this one's _very _sweet- ah- it goes: '_Oh, in your darling seperateness, you lovely- Oh, you verily- With golden quiet otherness, with tear-bright half-closed clarity- _Oh_, in the hour of your embrace- Imagined though the tryst may be- Your gentle power- Dearest you erase- Whatever fears that work to clutch at me-"_

"_Stop_, stop, shut your mouth, that one's _stupid_," Thomas hissed- and Jimmy grinned, sidestepping him, and forced his own features into a rather grimmer expression. "But then on page B we have a _sad_ one- the days find you in rather different humors, don't they?"

"What's the next one?" Thomas asked, his tone rude- and when Jimmy looked over at him, Thomas was massaging one temple with his injured hand.

"It's sad," Jimmy said- and he turned back to the page. "I love it, though. I made up a tune for this one, you know. Like a love song..."

"Well, go on, sing it for us," Thomas said, with a resigned air- and when Jimmy looked at him again Thomas had pitched his cigarette and was pulling off his jacket. The sight of Thomas's shoulders under his white shirt gave Jimmy an odd feeling- part desire and part memory. _I know just what you look like, under those clothes,_ Jimmy thought- and his eyes skimmed downwards independently of his will- across Thomas's chest and down his abdomen, to the crease of his trousers- and Jimmy had to look away, taken aback by his own lustful thoughts. "I can't _sing_ it for you," Jimmy said, to disguise his own momentary loss of breath. "I haven't got a piano."

"Here, I have one here, in my pocket- I'll play you a merry tune," Thomas said- and he tucked his suitjacket under his elbow, and pretended to play an invisible set of keys.

"Not merry," Jimmy said, smiling. "Maudlin. I won't sing it, but I'll read it aloud."

"What joy," Thomas said- but he was smiling as he dropped his hands. "Ready?" Jimmy asked- and he traced the cut on his own mouth with his tongue, watching Thomas's expression shift at his actions. Desire warred with guilt on Thomas's face. _I'm getting very good at reading him,_ Jimmy thought, in a self-congratulatory way. "If you don't stop feeling poorly about hitting me, I'll scream," Jimmy informed Thomas. "Few people on this earth have ever needed the sense slapped into them as badly as I needed it this morning."

Thomas opened his mouth immediately- and then shrugged, looking as if Jimmy had eased his distress somewhat. "You said it, not I," Thomas put back- and Jimmy nodded, affecting a cheeky smirk, and turned once more to Page B.

"As If I could not ascertain- for all your _greatness_, bold intent," Jimmy read- his voice grew softer, and he felt the smile fading from his face, at the sadness of the words-

"-You met me squarely with disdain  
And my marred ego I lament-

The pyramids you built on bended knee-  
The way your flat voice called the wind,  
The centuries before your chemistry-

As if I could have mourned you, could have wept  
As if I could have not surmised intents  
Your secret heart- of _stone_- a secret kept, and kept alone-  
Despite all loves and all laments-

My poor and sun-seared soul, my empty night  
A storm of _ice_- your words, derision, spite  
And I will beg and plead- implore again-  
Although I know it all will be in vain-

For in the crown of thorns above your brow  
Deception lives- a form, I know not how-  
It makes a sweet facsimile of soul-  
But you- in all the shadows that you cast, a _void_, a _hole_-

Are all for nothing, and nothing for love.  
So I crawl out- you shine on up above-  
I used to whisper 'darling' when you left  
But now I choke on _darlings_, am bereft-"  
Jimmy finished his recitation, and fell silent. For a moment Thomas said nothing- and there was only the empty road and the cool breeze, bringing with it the smell of the sea.

"You read it wrong," Thomas said, slowly. "You make it sound even worse than it _is_, with all those breaks."

"I'm saying it like a song," Jimmy answered. Jimmy realized he had begun to drum out the tune for the poem- the tune that he kept in his head- against the pages of the blue book.

"I see," Thomas muttered- and Jimmy gauged Thomas's reaction to the work. _I wonder if-_

"Is it about me?" Jimmy blurted out- and he and Thomas stared at each other, wide-eyed. Jimmy let out an anxious laugh. On previous readings Jimmy had been of the opinion that this particular poem was about the Messiah, or religion, or some abstracted topic- but now, meeting Thomas's eyes, Jimmy knew he had been mistaken.

"They're _both_ about me," Jimmy breathed- and Thomas's face turned a dark pink. Jimmy relented, slamming the book closed- and he tucked it away, in his pocket.

"No, they aren't," Thomas said- but it was weak defense- weak, and a moment too late to be convincing. "Not everything is about _you_," Thomas added, glancing towards the road underfoot.

Jimmy watched as Thomas smiled- though his eyes did not smile- down at his own shoes. For some reason the way Thomas's mouth worked- as if his forced smile pained him deeply- touched within Jimmy an old and rarely-used emotion- and Jimmy leaned in, so that he was very close to Thomas. At his sudden proximity Thomas stopped walking- and Jimmy inched towards him, and placed a hand, very deliberately, on Thomas's shoulder. He could feel the skin of Thomas's shoulder underneath the material of his shirt- it radiated heat, and Jimmy could almost get the measure of Thomas's heartbeat with his fingertips. _I want you layed over me, in a bed somewhere,_ Jimmy thought- and for a moment he was horrorstruck, thinking he had spoken the thought aloud. A dark stripe of hair had worked itself loose from Thomas's coiffed and pomaded hair- and it fell over his forehead, casting a thin shadow across his left eye.

"I'm sorry that I've hurt you," Jimmy said. It was hard to admit. Apologies did not come naturally to Jimmy, and he forced the words out from between his teeth. "Very sorry."

Thomas's expression grew very soft- softer even than it usually was, when he was looking in Jimmy's direction- and Thomas said, evenly: "Physically or- ah- intellectually?"

"What?" Jimmy asked, blankly. "Oh. Both? I suppose I _do_ feel my- uh- apologetic feelings in a- a _physical_ way, too- like in my chest-" Jimmy removed his hand from Thomas's shoulder and touched his own chest, to illustrate.

Now Thomas looked supremely amused- and he titled his head back, beginning again their forward march down the road. "You're awfully self-absorbed. I _mean_," Thomas said, smugly- "What were you apologizing for? For hitting me or for being nasty?"

"Oh," Jimmy said, in a small voice. He could feel his ears burning. "For bein' nasty, I meant."

"But it's very gratifying to know that the depth of your remorse is so _profound_-"

"Oh, _shut _it!" Jimmy snapped- and Thomas laughed- and then they rounded a bend, and the trees parted before them. There was the top of Polkirt Hill- and, adorning it, a building that could only be the Harcourt Institute.

"Strange-lookin' place," Thomas said- and Jimmy stared at the structure, as they approached the sprawling grounds- all nicely manicured- that fled upwards, to meet the edges of the building. The building itself was _huge_- and the oddest feat of architecture Jimmy could recall seeing.

"No wonder the townspeople tried to stop the construction," Jimmy said, remembering the newspaper article.

"Mmm." Thomas made a noise of agreement, his gaze still on the structure. Jimmy felt a touch of irritation at being ignored, for a moment- and then wanted to smack himself across his own split lip for his stupidity. _Envying a bloody building, because he _looked_ at it,_ Jimmy thought. Perhaps, Jimmy mused, he would forever now be envious of any solitary thing that Thomas gave his full attention to.

But truly the building _was_ magnificent- magnificent and ugly and lovely, all at once. You could still see Nellow Castle- that apparently historical estate- in the very centre of the structure- an old stone heart. Spreading outward from the castle- like petals grown around the center of a flower- were many separate wings- halls, maybe- sharp modern looking additions of glass and stone. The harsh angles of those new halls caught the light, making the edges of the building gleam. The light was more diffused where it fell upon the old building at the middle- and those softer-looking walls, worn down by time, lay in heavy contrast between the modern architecture and the sky.

A sign at the unlocked and unguarded gate proclaimed The Harcourt Institute in a humorless font- and Jimmy felt a thrill of unease as they began the climb up the driveway.

"I see people on the grounds," Jimmy said to Thomas, squinting at distant shapes in a distant garden.

"_Mad_ people," Thomas put back, raising his eyebrows ominously. "There's still time to turn around, if you're _frightened_-"

"They're not _mad_," Jimmy said, setting his jaw and striding on. "They're _rich_."

"Six of one-"

"Half-dozen of the other, right," Jimmy said. His hand- the one unencumbered by a valise- went to his coat pocket- there were his cards, and his book- and- and his _letter_, the letter Thomas had wrapped around his cards. Jimmy realized he had forgotten about it until now, in the strangeness of the morning.

They came to a fork in the path- the driveway wound on- but a set of stone steps, carved into the hill, led towards an entranceway: a stone arch- scarcely _arched_ at all, but more obtrusively geometric in shape- led them onto a path of flat rocks, with moss growing artfully between the stones. "Look-" Thomas said, in an undertone- and Jimmy turned to the right- they were walking past an open-air courtyard, with walls but no roof at all- and it was filled with _people. _People who bent and moved and swayed and _stretched_, oddly- in some series of movements. They seemed choreographed- but _poorly_, with varying levels of skill, some of them pausing, some standing in place, smoking- but most of them following along with the dance.

Both men and women stood in the courtyard, some on the ground and some on woven mats- they were a disparate bunch, to say the least. The majority of the crowd dressed in robes- grey, or equally muted shades- but Jimmy glimpsed a man in a fine looking cream-colored suit, complete with cap, and a woman in a gown- and another, much older woman, wearing a grey robe but _also_ wearing more than Jimmy's yearly salary in jewelry. They- all of the strangers- were turned away- save for one. Jimmy glimpsed him through a tangled skein of limbs in motion: the leader, a man with no hair to speak of, standing at the far end of the courtyard.

"He's leading the dance," Jimmy said to Thomas, in a whisper- and he crooked his finger towards the man.

"It's not a _dance_," Thomas whispered back. "I think... he's a _yogi_, or something."

"Oh, look, a _door_," Jimmy hissed- and they made for the entrance to the Institute as stealthily as possible.

The entrance was unassuming but inside they were swallowed up: the hall was great, and lightly colored, and everywhere there were sheets of glass- the largest windows Jimmy had ever seen. Stone floors, unadorned by carpets, squatted underneath oddly shaped wooden chairs, all of them unoccupied. Jimmy and Thomas snickered as they went in, like children at church, scoffing behind their hands.

"That was _fake_, that couldn't be real-" Jimmy whispered- and Thomas made to say something back- but then another- resident? Guest? Patient? Another grey-clad _person_ passed by them- and Jimmy and Thomas went silent, looking straight ahead as they walked on.

At the end of the hall was a gleaming wooden desk, incongruous with all the sleek modernity around it- and behind it sat a woman in a blazer, intently studying a book. Jimmy glanced at Thomas- Thomas was pulling on his suitjacket- he buttoned it, and made to fix his hair- and Jimmy removed his own cap, and fixed his hair as well. This hasty grooming was missed entirely by the receptionist, who did not look up until Jimmy was standing directly over the desk- and even then she glanced upwards slowly, coming out of the world enclosed in the pages of the book by slow degrees.

_I know how you feel,_ Jimmy thought- and then the woman said: "Are you here to check in? May I have your name?"

"Oh- _no_," Jimmy said, hastily. "No. We're not here as- uh- as _guests_. My name is Jimmy Kent. I have an appointment with Dr. Cour- with Dr. _Hoyle._ I-"

The woman- who, Jimmy noticed, did not so much as bat an eyelash at their strange, injured appearances- flipped open the cover of a large appointment book, and ran one nail along a list of names. "Yes. I see you, Mr. Kent. And-" here she looked at Thomas questioningly.

"He's my butler," Jimmy offered- and Thomas actually scoffed _aloud_, so that Jimmy slid him an outraged look. The receptionist looked between them, with nary an expression on her face- and then Thomas said: "It doesn't matter. I'm not going in. I'll sit out here."

"What?" Jimmy said, feeling his shoulders tense. "No. You have to-" Jimmy glanced back to the woman. "Excuse us, for one moment-" Jimmy said- and he walked a few paces away, gesturing that Thomas should follow him.

"You have to come _with_ me," Jimmy said, as urgently as he could manage while whispering. "You _have_ to."

"I don't want to meet him," Thomas said, curling his upper lip. "I don't _care_ for him. Self-involved little rotter too good even to come visit his own blind brother-"

"Blind?" Jimmy asked, confused. "The unknown soldier- I mean- Lieutenant Courtenay- was _blind_?"

"Injured in the war, I told you," Thomas said- and Jimmy thought only of the haunted, luminous eyes of the people in the late Lieutenant's drawings- and shivered. "No wonder he killed himself," Jimmy said, quietly. "He was unhappy enough when he could _see_."

"I think the Lieutenant loved to look at the world," Thomas said- and Jimmy felt a spark of jealousy again. "I didn't realize how _much_ he loved it until after he was dead, when I read the book," Thomas added.

"Right. Anyways," Jimmy said, feeling his throat tighten. "-so the brother's _awful, _then. Still- it's _obvious _that the soldier loved him. So I have to give him the- the _book_- and I- it's the right thing to do, and you-" Jimmy broke off- and gripped Thomas's forearm, hoping the receptionist wasn't watching. "I need you to come with me," Jimmy said, quietly, praying that whatever charms his voice worked upon Thomas would make his pleas more persuasive.

"Jimmy," Thomas said- and his forehead creased with evident concern- "What's the _matter?_"

"What?" Jimmy asked, confused. "Nothing. I only-"

"You're shaking," Thomas said, looking alarmed.

"No, I'm not," Jimmy said, confused. "Why would I be _shaking_? It isn't cold."

Thomas looked at him for a half-second longer- and then some change flickered across Thomas's face- and he reached out, and squeezed Jimmy's arm in return. "Alright," Thomas said, studying Jimmy. "I'll come with you."

"Good," Jimmy said- he said it matter-of-factly but inwardly he felt a vast relief- and they turned together back to the desk. The receptionist was again immersed in her book- and Jimmy tried to peer at the title on the spine- but she tucked the book into her desk, and peered up at him, one eyebrow arching slightly.

"We've decided we're both going to go up," Jimmy said, firmly- and the woman's eyebrow ascended further. "Your name, please," she said flatly, to Thomas- and Jimmy put his free hand out, beseechingly. "Can you _please _just show us up? We're not here to _ambush_ your employer- we're doing him a kindness, actually-"

"Sir-"

"Please," Jimmy said- and his voice cracked on the word, so that he was left quite embarrassed with himself.

"Listen," Thomas said, stepping in front of Jimmy. "Miss. If you'd kindly tell- if you'd tell the _Doctor _that Mr. Kent and a friend are here on behalf of Edward Courtenay- and let _him_ decide if we can go in- we'd be much obliged."

The woman nodded- though Jimmy could see she had already decided to be agreeable- she had decided it when he had said '_Please'. _"I'll ask him," she said- she was rising, now, and Jimmy was taken back by her clothes- she wore a blazer, sure enough, but also she wore men's trousers, and men's shoes. That- and the dancers- and the building- it was all _too_ bizarre for a moment, too much to take in. Jimmy blinked, experiencing one of those particular waves of unreality- it swept through him, leaving lightheadedness in its wake.

"Please wait here," the receptionist said, a trifle severely- and she gave them both a measured look, and turned on her heel, leaving the room.

"There, that'll work," Thomas said- and he looked at Jimmy, amused- but also appraising- he was checking Jimmy for something. _Shaking,_ _perhaps_, Jimmy thought. Some phantom bout of nerves that Thomas thought he was having.

"I forgot his false name," Thomas said, smiling now, at his own folly. The corners of Thomas's lips turned up like wings, and Jimmy remembered, with perfect clarity, the taste of Thomas's mouth.

"Hoyle," Jimmy said, and looked at him curiously. "How'd you figure out it was _him- _that Jack the Junior Behaviorist was- this man, the man at the Harcourt Institute?"

"It was chance that I saw that article. Ages ago. Before we met. But it struck me- because of some things Lieutenant Courtenay had told me," Thomas said. "He told me his brother wanted to push him out of the family- but he _also_ told me his brother had wanted to open an-" Thomas fell silent, suddenly- looking worriedly into Jimmy's eyes. "Jimmy. You don't _have_ to do this. I don't know why you're _making _yourself, if it upsets you so-"

"I'm not _upset_," Jimmy said, tersely. He took a deep breath- and a few long and silent moments stretched out between them. "I'm just-"

"You may follow me," the receptionist announced, from the doorway- and Jimmy nearly jumped out of his skin."Thank you," Thomas said, graciously- and he and Jimmy walked behind the oddly dressed woman, who led them, straight-backed, through another modern corridor.

They had to wind around three men in dressing gowns, who emerged unexpectedly from what was ostensibly a steam room- and then there were more rooms, where Jimmy could hear several people speaking at once- and then suddenly there was the overpowering smell of food. It was one odd thing after another- and Jimmy glanced up at Thomas, to see if Thomas found it as fantastical as he did.

Thomas was looking at him already- for a moment their gazes locked- and then they were passing into an older room, with vaulted ceilings and stone walls- and Jimmy realized that they were in Nellow Castle now- the old heart of the Institute. The halls were suddenly dim, compared to the brightness of the light in the modern wing. To Jimmy's left there spread a vast music room- someone was playing Ravel on the piano with a harp accompanying- and noises, too many to discern- tears and laughter echoed down the halls, and strange mechanical creaks, and bells chiming.

The receptionist started up the grand staircase- and Thomas and Jimmy followed her. For some reason, Jimmy's heart was beating very loudly in his ears, and he thought- _There's no going back, oh, not from any of it-_

At the top of stairs they made a left- and then they passed through a small office, with an empty desk- to a grand wooden door. Jimmy looked at Thomas, anxiously, as the oddly-dressed woman rapped her knuckles against the door- and then the door swung abruptly open, and they were faced with Jack Courtenay.

Jimmy had to admit to himself that he had been expecting to see some measure of himself in the brother of the unknown soldier- that was, assuming there was a family resemblance between the brothers themselves. He had been prepared, even, to discover that Jack Courtenay was painfully handsome- handsome in a way that would make Jimmy himself feel inadequate. But Jack Courtenay, he observed, was not handsome, not remotely.

The man was youthful- somewhere, Jimmy estimated, between his own age and Thomas's. But there was nothing appealing about the man. He was- for starters, painfully thin- almost _gaunt_, as if the hollows in his cheeks spoke of some internal illness. His suit looked expensive, and it was tailored well, only emphasizing the slightness of body- and his hands were almost comically large, with lengthy fingers. Courtenay's face was striking- but not appealing- his eyes were set a touch too far apart- his entire visage was too narrow- his cheekbones too high and too prominent. His hair was cut like Jimmy's, but it was dull brown, and curled in unruly tendrils over his forehead. _What an odd-looking bloke,_ Jimmy thought, derisively- and, on the heels of that- _Perhaps the Lieutenant wasn't so handsome after all-_

"Yes, thank you, Miss Abernathy," Courtenay was saying, in a flawless- but _false_- Irish accent. "I think that will be all." And then he was stepping backwards into his own office, gesturing- rather furtively- for Jimmy and Thomas to follow him. Thomas gave Jimmy a long-suffering look- thought Jimmy could _still_ see, frustratingly, that underneath that look Thomas was _worried_ about him. _I'm fine, I'm just fine,_ Jimmy thought- and he walked, firmly, into the office.

"Uh. Hello," Courtenay said, in his regular voice, as if the accent had never existed- he clicked the door shut, and stood, rocking on the balls of his feet, regarding Jimmy and Thomas. "I'm Dr. Hoyle. Ah- I _mean_- Dr. Courtenay-"

"I know you are," Jimmy said- and he stepped forward, taking the other man's proffered hand. "I'm Jimmy Kent."

"It's pleasure to meet you," Courtenay said, manneredly- and then he glanced over, at Thomas. "I wasn't meaning for this to be-ah- _formal_, though," Courtenay added. "You didn't need to bring your butler-"

"He's not _my_ butler," Jimmy said, hastily- and he watched Thomas look at him with some amusement, at the words. "He's- ah- Mr. _Barrow-_ Dr. Courtenay-"

Thomas threw Jimmy a sharp look- and Jimmy realized, suddenly, that Thomas had likely not wanted Jimmy to use his _actual_ name.

"A pleasure," Courtenay said- and he offered his hand to Thomas- but Thomas only looked down at him, not moving, nor offering his own hand in return. Thomas's lips were curled into a rather unpleasant expression. "D'ya have a telephone?" Thomas asked, rudely- and Dr. Courtenay withdrew his outstretched arm, looking confused. "Ah- yes- out in my receptionist's office-"

"Do you mind if I go for a moment? I have to telephone our place of employment-" Thomas asked- and Jimmy realized that the question had been directed at _him_. "Uh. No, that's fine," Jimmy said- and Thomas nodded at him, meaningfully- and walked out, shutting the office door as he went.

Now Jimmy was alone with Jack the Junior Behaviorist. "Please, suh-_sit_-" Courtenay said, indicating a chair- and Jimmy turned, taking in the room- it was _cluttered_- astonishingly cluttered, filled with _things_- a piano sat in the corner, with files stacked atop it- bookshelves swept upwards to the ceilings, overflowing with texts and papers and photographs- and from the ceiling fanciful mobiles hung, turning slowly in the breeze that passed through the open windows. _Odd sort of office, for a doctor,_ Jimmy thought- and walked along the layered carpets, all worked in colorful designs, to sit in a red chair, setting his valise at his feet. Dr. Courtenay himself seemed at a loss- he fluttered his hands, walked halfway around his desk, and then came back around the other way. Finally he sat of the edge of the desk, facing Jimmy- and cracked his knuckles, cleared his throat, and looked Jimmy in the eyes.

"You have a journal of Edward's?" Courtenay asked now, in a muted voice- and Jimmy nodded, setting his jaw. "Yes," Jimmy said, firmly. "But I am afraid I cannot hand it over to you, Doctor, until you tell me- _why_ the false identity? The accent, the name-"

"Yes," Courtenay said, smiling sheepishly- his smile was wide, and split his awkward face, a cheery division of features. "It must appear rather suh-_suspect_." Courtenay had a stammer, Jimmy noticed- he had not heard a trace of it on the telephone-but it only occurred when he spoke in his regular voice- in his falsely accented tones it had not been evident at all.

"To control your stutter?" Jimmy asked, not caring if it was impolite to ask- but Courtenay did not seem insulted- he only smiled again, and shook his head _no_.

"My parents live in a small- and a rather old-fashioned- community," Courtenay said, steepling his long-fingered hands, and leaning forward, like a child immersed in a well-loved tale. "And by the time I finished university I was already rather- notorious. I knew the Harcourt Institute would only make me look worse- and I wanted to avoid the suh-_sort_ of notoriety that plagues my contemporaries. If only to spare them the embarrassment."

"Let Dr. Hoyle take the fall," Jimmy said, nodding. He found, for some reason, that he trusted Courtenay, a little bit- not like he trusted _Thomas_- or _himself_- but a little bit, despite his earlier suspicions.

"Yes," Courtenay agreed, happily. "Dr. _Hoyle_ is already considered to be a rogue by reputation in suh-_several _countries- but it hardly affects me."

"And the false voice?" Jimmy pressed.

"I like to do accents. Also- there's this research I'm doing on xenophobia- but I mentioned that."

"Aren't you afraid you'll forget- slip up and use your regular voice?" Jimmy asked, curious.

"No," Courtenay said, looking amused. "I'm rather good- at not _forgetting _things."

"Hmm," Jimmy said, drumming his fingers on his leg- and then he decided himself- and with hands that shook rather badly, he touched blue book, inside his jacket pocket.

"Your friend doesn't like me," Courtenay said, into Jimmy's momentary silence- and Jimmy nodded. "Mr. Barrow knew your brother-" Jimmy said, not caring if it sounded harsh. "-after he was... was _blinded_- and whatever he said made Mr. Barrow think you were trying to- to _disinherit _him, or something-"

Jimmy's hand flexed around the book in his pocket- and he looked up- and was astonished to see that Courtenay's eyes were bright with tears. "Yes," Courtenay nodded- and he looked very young- it made Jimmy think suddenly of the boy from the _farm_, reading aloud from his textbooks to Theresa and the Lieutenant, in bygone summer days of idleness- and Jimmy felt the first stirrings of sympathy for him. _You're going positively soft,_ Jimmy reprimanded himself. A few weeks ago he would not have been so moved by the plight of another. A few weeks ago, Jimmy thought, he had been a different person.

But seeing Courtenay here- in the flesh- was like meeting a character from a favorite novel-seeing them sprung suddenly from fiction into reality- and he felt badly, at the man's pain. _You were my preferred character, in the first half, _Jimmy thought, resisting the wildly inappropriate urge to laugh. _Much better than your brother- though for me it was all _really_ about the second part of the book-_

"Yes. The last time we ever spoke, Edward was very angry with me," Jack said- and Jimmy noticed that Courtenay was _Jack_ now- with that, he had become inseparable in Jimmy's mind from the _Jack_ to whom the Lieutenant addressed his writings to. _And they're one and the same, aren't they?_ Jimmy thought, taking a breath. _Just as Thomas and the great poet who loves_ _me so ardently- and writes so eloquently- are one and the same-_

"If you've read his writing, perhaps you could suh-_see_- that Edward was plagued by ill-tempers and bouts of terrible suh-_sadness_," Jack went on, meeting Jimmy's eyes with his own teary ones. "All his life."

"Yes, I could see that," Jimmy said, nodding. "_I_ could see it clear as day."

"And I have often thought that if I had simply _agreed _with him, acted as if things could go on much the same- he might've... I don't know," Jack admitted, in a far away voice- and he ran a hand over his decidedly un-smooth hair. "Held back on killing himself for a bit longer," Jack finished, unhappily- and he stood, suddenly, stretching his long arms over his head.

"Mr. Kent- I need a drink," Jack said. "Would you-"

"Yes, please," Jimmy said, immediately- and he and Jack smiled at each other- and Jimmy- though he had been of two minds about it up until that very moment- decided that Jack was worthy of the blue book, after all.

"I hope suh-_scotch _suh-_suits _you, because it's all I have," Jack said, walking behind Jimmy, to a glass cabinet.

"That'll do quite well, Doctor," Jimmy said, exhaling a long breath. Faintly he could hear Thomas speaking behind the door- and he wondered exactly what Thomas could say- what lie he could invent, or what excuse he could give, to extricate themselves. _From the situation that I've gotten us into,_ Jimmy thought, examining his own folly, like a man holding an ancient artifact up to the light.

"Please," Jack said, handing Jimmy a- rather tall- glass of scotch, and sitting- this time behind his desk- "Call me Jack."

"Call me Jimmy, Jack," Jimmy returned- and he took a long, fortifying sip, and pulled the journal from his pocket. The cover of the tome gleamed bright blue, catching the afternoon light- and Jimmy felt his stomach twist, at the thought of being parted from it.

"The second half isn't by him, and it isn't for _you_," Jimmy said, sharply- and Jack looked slightly taken aback- but then he nodded, leaning forward. Jimmy saw the moment as if it were captured on film- his own hand, with the book in it, reached out- and then he passed the journal to Jack's waiting fingers.

There was no thunderclap; no great cataclysm tore the earth asunder- no fire rained down from heaven- and yet Jimmy felt the world spin away from him, as the young doctor opened the journal, blinking. "Yes. This is it, I couldn't ever forget it."

Jack leaned over the desk, looking down at the first page of it- and Jimmy knew, without looking, just what he would read there:

_'Dearest Jack- At your behest I have finally opened this little book- so charmingly insistent have you been in your letters that I must admit to being a bit swayed by your conviction. Though I confess I feel some small amusement-'_

-And then later, after the Lieutenant was dead, there would come a part in the book that held beauty beyond imagining- filled with all the mystery of Thomas's soul, and the wonderment- and pain- of living-

_My god,_ Jimmy thought- and he was clutched by a terrible cold fear- a he felt as if he could not draw a breath. _It's my _heart_, it's my heart- and I've given it away, like it was _nothing_, to a stranger-_

But then the door swung open, and Thomas walked in- and Jimmy felt the mindless terror that had gripped him ease. Thomas looked between them- from Jack, with the blue book- back over to Jimmy- and he raised his brows, in such insouciance- and such clear, almost theatrical displeasure- that Jimmy smiled, despite himself.

"I thought we were going to _remove_ the content of the latter half?" Thomas asked- he took a seat next to Jimmy, with a grimace- and Jack looked over at them, like a man roused from a dream. _I wonder if his ribs are hurting him very much, _Jimmy thought, watching Thomas rearrange himself in the chair.

"Have you managed _that_ then?" Jimmy asked, quietly- and Thomas nodded, tersely. "I think so. Mrs. Hughes had the forethought to lie and say we were both bedridden. She's none too pleased, though."

"I'll bet," Jimmy said- and Jack looked between them, his wide set eyes alight and sparking with interest. "Gentlemen," Jack said- his long-fingered hands moved idly over the pages of the book, to wrap around the glass of scotch- "I am so very grateful that you have come here- and done me this kindness. And yet- from the urgency of your telephone call this morning, Jimmy- I gather you're in suh-_some _kind of trouble."

"No, we aren't," Thomas said, shortly- but Jimmy nodded, immediately- and Thomas gave him a pointed look.

"We can trust him," Jimmy said- and Thomas's expression grew incredulous. _I know, I never trust anybody,_ Jimmy agreed, inwardly. "And anyways," Jimmy said, as if Jack were not in the room- "he can't _say_ anything to anybody- we have something on him."

Jack chuckled. "That you do. My true _identity_, as it were_._"

"If he tells, we'll tell," Jimmy said- but Thomas hardly looked convinced.

"We should be leaving," Thomas said- and Jimmy shook his head _no_- and put his hand to Thomas's arm, just for an instant, in full view of Jack. Thomas's eyes went very wide- and he removed his arm from Jimmy's fingers.

"Look," Jack said- and they both turned their heads to stare at him. "Mr. Barrow. I know that you- ah- think me an _unpleasant _sort of person-"

"Why yes, I do. I don't trust any man who would leave his brother alone to die," Thomas said, conversationally- but there was a cutting edge to his voice- and Jimmy gaped at him- awed at the _gall_, the bravado of Thomas's calm malice. _Never, he would never be that way with me,_ Jimmy thought- and in his thoughts came an echo of Thomas's words.

_"I'm sorry, I just- I just want to be kind to you,"_ Thomas said, in Jimmy's memory- _"I'm poor at it but I just want to be kind to you-"_

Jack blinked, looking stung. "That's your right," he said, after a beat. "I know Edward was angry with me. At me. He was always suh-_suspicious_- that father and I would one day tell him he was in suh-_some _way mentally unfit- and we argued the last time we ever spoke. And by the time I managed to return to England he was dead-"

"Jimmy," Thomas said over Jack, making to rise again- and suddenly Jack slammed his palms on the desk, loudly- making Jimmy startle, though Thomas merely rolled his eyes.

"Now see here," Jack said, sharply- his voice had taken on an edge that Jimmy had not heard in it previously, and Jack spoke quickly, and with some force. Jimmy noticed that Jack did not stutter when he spoke angrily, but pronounced each word with perfect clarity: "I _loved_ my brother, Mr. Barrow," Jack said, lowly. "I... I suppose I worshiped him. But from my very earliest childhood, I knew that he was..." Jack trailed off, the anger gone from his face- his head inclining downwards, towards the blue book- and then his neck snapped back up, so that he was staring at the pair of them. "I knew he was suh-_sometimes _unwell," Jack said, quietly. "If you doubt I loved him, you must look only at my career- at the stuh-_studies _I conduct even here- my research..."

"To see that it was all for him," Jimmy said aloud, when it seemed that Jack would not continue- and Jimmy shot a glance over at Thomas. _I told you so,_ Jimmy thought, looking at Thomas pointedly- and Thomas rolled his eyes again- but he did not make another attempt to leave.

"Yes. I was trying to find a way to- to aid him-" Jack said. "I failed, of course. But perhaps in the future we will be able to help people afflicted- _ah_- as Edward was." For a moment they all three were quiet, and Jimmy focused on Thomas's face, trying to see if he could read the stirrings of compassion there. _You _can _hold a grudge, can't you,_ Jimmy thought, with something verging on admiration.

"And your friend has done me a great kindness," Jack went on. "And-" he looked between them- and Jimmy could clearly see in Jack's eyes the bright spark of- of cleverness- of _intellect_- that Jimmy had expected from the boy in the book, written to with love by his mad brother.

"And I am astute enough to see that Mr. Kent- Jimmy- would not have come here suh-_so ...abruptly_-if he were not in suh-_some _trouble or turmoil. And you're caught up in it as well," Jack went on. "I am offering my assistance- to _repay _you, if I can. Although- ah- I can never repay you," Jack added, as an afterthought, touching the pages of the book. "You have given me a tremendous gift. I don't think I could tell you what value it has to me."

"We don't need your help," Thomas said- he said it with some restraint, however- he was not openly unpleasant.

"Yes, I do," Jimmy said- and when Thomas's jaw dropped, Jimmy said to him, "I need to _talk_ to somebody about this who isn't _you_-" out of the corner of his mouth. Jimmy felt as if he were suspended somewhere above his own seat, with his body making decisions for him independently of his brain- and he gripped his glass of alcohol; a last tether to reality.

"But it's illegal," Jimmy added, without planning to say it. _Whee, what fun_, he thought, feeling his stomach turn, as if he were at sea.

"_Jimmy_," Thomas said- but Jack cleared his throat. "I promise utter confidentiality, if you want to discuss anything with me- in my capacity as a _doctor_," Jack said, magnanimously. "Unless you've murdered suh-_someone_. Then I'm afraid I'll have to turn you in." Jack chuckled at his own joke- and then looked between the silent pair of them. "Hm. Perhaps another _drink_," Jack said- and Jimmy noticed that he had, somehow, finished his entire glass. _I don't remember drinking all of that,_ Jimmy thought- but Jack was rising, walking around them, collecting Jimmy's glass. "I hope you don't mind suh-_scotch_, Mr. Barrow," Jack said, from across the room.

"I don't _mind_ it," Thomas said, still staing at Jimmy fixedly. "What're you doing _now_?" Thomas asked, in a whisper- and Jimmy met Thomas's eyes, and squared his jaw. "Maybe he can tell us what to do," Jimmy offered- and Thomas only looked more put out. "I _know_ what to _do_," Thomas said, sounding exasperated. "Can't we just-"

"Thomas. Please. He _helps_ people," Jimmy said. His voice sounded ragged in his own ears.

"Yeah," Thomas said, raising an eyebrow. "So?"

"I think..." Jimmy admitted, in an undertone- "I think perhaps I need... I think I need to be _helped_-"

Jimmy's voice broke on 'helped'- and he put his hand to his face, to hide his humilation- but Thomas, mindless, for a moment, of the other person in the room, looped one arm around Jimmy's shoulders. Thomas smelled of smoke and the outdoors. Jimmy took a long breath, seized by the sudden, ridiculous urge to weep into Thomas's lapels- just rest his head there- but he resisted, staying still within the crook of Thomas's arm.

"That's fine, my love," Thomas whispered. "You can talk to him all night, alright? And then I'll tell you poetry all the way home-"

Jimmy took another breath- and laughed quietly, despite his upset. "_All_ the way home?" Jimmy asked, unsteadily- he _felt_ unsteady, on a very fundamental level- as if Thomas were the only solid thing in the universe- and then Jack was walking back towards them, and they broke apart, at the noise of his footfalls.

"For you, and you," Jack said. If had had seen them embrace he gave no indication- but simply settled back in his seat, and pulled a cigarette from his pocket. Instantly Thomas had produced his own cigarettes- and took one- and Jimmy took one, too. _To steady my nerves,_ Jimmy thought- and when he looked up from the flame Thomas offered, Jack was regarding them pleasantly.

"Now tell me," Jack said- "what is going _on_- and I will try my very best to find my way to a suh-_solution_."

"I..." Jimmy paused. Now that the moment of truth was upon him, he felt as if he could not speak- and he pulled his lucky cards from his pocket with a shaking fist.

"Let's play a hand," Jimmy said- and Jack nodded- and Jimmy dealt them each cards, pulling his chair up to the desk. Jimmy could feel Thomas's eyes upon him- but Thomas took the offered cards without comment, and pulled his chair closer in turn.

"May I hazard a guess?" Jack asked, as Jimmy examined his cards- and Jimmy looked up, and nodded. Jack smiled. "I hope you won't take offense at this, if I'm wrong- but- are you... are you running away together?"

"Yes," Jimmy said, in a whisper. Beside him Thomas went very still.

"I mean _no_," Jimmy corrected. "I mean _I_ was running away from- from something- but Mr. Barrow- but Thomas _found_ me before I could-"

"Before he could get fired," Thomas cut in- but Jack looked wholly unruffled- and his eyes gleamed. From he desk he produced a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles- and put them on, examining his cards. "If it's a matter of running away, I would suh-_suggest _Berlin," Jack said, laying down a card. "Or suh-_Sweden_. You can _stuh_-stay here while you get your affairs in order, I have more rooms than I can ever quite fill-"

"I'm not packed for traveling," Thomas said, curtly- and he offered Jack a tight and unconvincing smile.

"I think we're going to go back to our jobs," Jimmy amended, taking another turn. Thomas nodded- and he and Jimmy shared a glance- before looking over at Jack, who won the hand with his next card, making Jimmy feel a twinge of hurt dignity that he was too distracted to give full thought to.

"What is it that you do?" Jack asked- and Jimmy answered him, before Thomas could interject with some fabrication. "I'm a footman an' he's a butler. At a great house."

"Oh," Jack said, nodding emphatically. "That does make everything rather... complex. And this worries you."

"Of _course_ it does, we could go to _prison_," Jimmy said- and Thomas looked at him, very pale- but Jack appeared unruffled by any and all revelations. "I nearly got him sent to prison once already-"

"Jimmy," Thomas said, warningly- but Jack was sitting upright, his posture perfect, and giving Jimmy his full, unwavering attention, as if Jimmy were a fascinating puzzle to be solved.

"Because you did not return his feelings? Because you find his-ah- private life morally reprehensible?" Jack pressed- and Jimmy shook his head _no_- and looked away from his cards- to the floor. Thomas shrugged- Jimmy could just see the movement of Thomas's shoulders, in his peripheral vision- and then Thomas lifted his glass of scotch to his lips, and drank deeply, as if he had given up on the entire situation.

"Why, then?" Jack asked, and his tones were rather gentle- rather neutral- devoid of judgement.

"Because I didn't want people to think I was like him," Jimmy said, to his lap. He felt very small, as if the chair had grown larger without him being aware of it.

"Did you lead Mr. Barrow to think you were... like _him_?" Jack asked.

"No," Jimmy said, quietly. "Yes. A little. To advance my position." Jimmy could hardly bring himself to look over at Thomas. He could not understand why he should feel such- such _shame- _and such painful remorse- at his own past transgressions- when they had always seemed so rational before. As if Jimmy could not have done anything any other way. But Thomas only looked back at him calmly, and gave him a reassuring nod.

"But you _are_ like him, aren't you?" Jack asked, matter-of-factly- and Jimmy turned his head to Jack- and tried to speak- and _failed_- and only nodded, averting his eyes again. _Yes, I am, _ Jimmy thought- and when he looked up, both men were staring at him.

"You were humming," Thomas informed him- and Jimmy felt his cheeks get hot.

"It's perfectly natural, you know," Jack was saying, now. "Fear makes people do bizarre things. May I ask- were you two mugged, today?"

"No. We had a row," Jimmy said, quietly. "In the train station. But that's not why Mr. Barrow's injured. He saved _me_ from a mugging two weeks ago-"

"This is quite the picture you're painting," Jack said- he stubbed out his cigarette- and looked at Jimmy intently. "May I furthermore ask- because I do not understand- where my brother's journal fits in to all of this?"

"Uh. It isn't my place to say," Jimmy said, expecting Thomas to give him a warning look- but Thomas, to Jimmy's astonishment, cleared his throat, and said, flatly: "I had it. I knew Lieutenant Courtenay- I was a medic at the hospital where he... where he went- and it was lost somewhere- they found it when they were cleaning everything out after the war. I knew him, so I took it."

_Very fine lie,_ Jimmy thought- _Of half-truth, as it were-_ and he had the oddest feeling that _Jack_ was thinking the same thing, behind his clever eyes- but Jack only nodded.

"Is it your writing," Jack asked- making an intuitive leap that Jimmy hadn't expected- "in the latter half of the book?"

"I..." Thomas blinked, and looked shiftily from side to side- but it was too late- his hesitation had answered the question.

"It was precious to you?" Jack asked- and Thomas _scowled_ at him. "I didn't volunteer for this- whatever-it-is. Don't interrogate _me._"

"My apologies," Jack said, mildly. "I was-ah- just trying to understand. You were in love with Edward? And then, later, Jimmy?"

"Listen- I know what _I'm_ about," Thomas said. Thomas's skin, Jimmy observed, had flushed crimson over the bridge of his nose- and it was so attractive that Jimmy's stomach dropped again- but not, this time, from nerves.

"I'm not criticizing you. Everybody fell in love with Edward," Jack said, smiling faintly, at some memory. "The local girls. I suh-_suppose _a few of the local boys. He wrote to me about a few declarations he got in the trenches. He was very charming- and kind, usually. I'm glad to know it, Mr. Barrow. If you were caring for him, at the end... at least he wasn't alone-"

"He _died_ alone," Thomas said, a bit cruelly- and Jimmy touched a hand to Thomas's shoulder, to stop him from saying anything overly harsh.

"Look, I'm very _sorry_," Thomas said, standing up. "It's just...bizarre to have this sort of conversation with a- stranger. May I have another drink?"

"Only if you pour me one," Jack said, offering up his empty glass. Jimmy, already on his second drink, held his glass in one hand, the mostly-gone cigarette in the other- and when Thomas stood, Jack fixed his attention on Jimmy again.

"Did he give you Edward's journal, or did you stuh-_steal _it?" Jack asked- and the non-sequitur made Jimmy blink.

"I...uh... I _stole_ it," Jimmy said- and he remembered with vivid intensity the moment when he had first seen the book, peeking out from under the edge of Thomas's cot while Thomas slept above it, lovely and wounded-looking. "I was hoping that he'd written something about me... and you see- I-"

"Yes? Thank you," Jack said- Thomas had come back around and was handing him a glass. Jimmy guessed that the alcohol had eased Thomas's deep-rooted hatred of the man somewhat.

"That's what I wanted to _speak_ with you about," Jimmy said, quietly. Jimmy could not bring himself to look at Thomas- he stared, instead, at a spot on the wall over Jack's head, where one of his diplomas hung. _Forged diplomas?_ Jimmy wondered, vaguely- _Or does he hang them up so high so that nobody can make out the name?_

"Yes. Please." Jack said, pushing his spectacles up on his nose.

"I'm not afraid of getting caught," Jimmy said, evenly. "Or- at least- not _very_ afraid. We're clever, Mr. Barrow and I- we can manage. It's just that I-" Jimmy found that it was very hard to speak about- and for several beats he shut his eyes, trying to summon up the ability to articulate himself. And then- Jimmy felt Thomas's hand settle, very lightly, on his shoulder. _Don't, I can't look at you, not while I say this,_ Jimmy thought- but still Thomas's touch gave him the strength to continue.

"I've always felt as if I..." Jimmy paused, grinding out his cigarette in the ashtray- and pushed a hand through his hair, before continuing. "You know the phrase 'no man is an island'?"

"_Everyone_ knows _that _phrase," Thomas said, at his elbow- and Jimmy laughed, and shoved him lightly, on the shoulder. "Shut your mouth, will you," Jimmy said- and he looked over, into Thomas's amused and handsome face- before remembering himself, and turning back to Jack.

"Well. I've always felt- like an _island_," Jimmy said, uneasily, at Jack's questioning expression. "Always. Since I can remember. I... feel sometimes as if I almost exist in opposition to- to- _society_- like none of it matters- not rules, not _anything_- except for convincing people you're like _them_ so that you can get along. And people- they've rarely mattered. Excepting what they can _do _for you, of course-"

"You stuh-_started _out treating Mr. Barrow that very suh-_same _way?" Jack asked- and Jimmy nodded, feeling that awful shame well up again within him. Jimmy carefully did not look over, to see how his words were being taken by Thomas.

"I did- _like _Mr. Barrow a bit-" Jimmy said, hesitantly- and without glancing at Thomas Jimmy put a hand on his knee, not caring if Jack saw- Jack knew everything now, anyways- or enough to ruin them.

"But I... _loathed _him, too. I thought for a while that Mr. Barrow- Thomas- was one of those soppy, lecherous types. And lecherous about _me_. _Lavender_. Deviant. Smart, perhaps- but rendered- rendered _stupid_- by his obvious infatuation. And far too forward."

Jimmy squeezed Thomas's knee, feeling wretched- and wretchedly unkind- but Thomas only snorted- and Jack nodded, as if deep in thought.

"I didn't even feel poorly for taking his journal," Jimmy added. "I wasn't even _sorry_. I didn't even _think_ to be sorry- I thought- _'a sucker is a sucker and a rube is a rube'_- _that_'_s_ what I thought, as if it were my divine right to take his _things_- and now I feel very differently- about _everything_- and I don't know what to do. Once I didn't feel much of anything at all- but- things _pain_ me, now- I-" Jimmy broke off, shuddering, and took a long sip of his scotch.

"Where did Mr. Barrow keep the journal?" Jack asked- it was such an unexpected question that Jimmy fumbled for an answer.

"In my bureau," Thomas said.

"But he fell asleep- and left it out- on the day I stole it-" Jimmy said- and Jack nodded. "And why were you in his room?"

"I... I was bringing him his tray," Jimmy said, with confusion.

"And," Jack said, cracking his knuckles, "Was that your duty?"

"What? No," Jimmy said. "I''m first footman- I could've passed it off to- to the second footman, or one of the hallboys- but I- but he was convalescing _because_ of me-"

"The beating you took?" Jack asked Thomas, who nodded, again.

"I suh-_see_. brought him his meals- because you felt _guilt_y?" Jack inquired.

"I... I suppose I did-" Jimmy said, thinking. "And to check he was breathing. It sounds... _stupid_, I know- but the heir of the estate we work at has just recently died, and everyone is a bit on edge-"

"The armband?" Jack said, pointing to Thomas's sleeve- and Thomas and Jimmy both nodded.

"Then-" Jack went on, "-you felt guilt. And worry. But here you had just told me you didn't feel _anything_."

"I..." Jimmy considered this, weighing it in his own thoughts, and then swallowed. His throat felt as if it were half-closed- words did not pass easily through his lips. "I'm not used to not knowing my own mind," Jimmy said, quietly.

"Nobody knows the entirety of their own mind," Jack said- and Thomas made a derisive sound- but instead of openly disagreeing, Thomas patted Jimmy's forearm, soothingly.

"I thought perhaps it was only- _only_ guilt- when I agreed to be his friend- and I thought it was only- uh- only _desire_, when we began-" Jimmy broke off, feeling his face get hot- but Jack still appeared utterly unruffled. _I'm sure he's heard madder things than this,_ Jimmy told himself- but that did not make such topics any more comfortable to discuss. "Thomas, may I have another cigarette," Jimmy asked, lowly- and Thomas produced one immediately- and, wonder of wonders, he even let Jimmy _hold_ his silver lighter.

"He began to make a habit of stealing my things," Thomas said, while Jimmy lit his cigarette- and Jimmy looked up sharply- certain he was being mocked- but Thomas looked quite _serious_- he was speaking to Jack with a touch more civility. "And reciting-my- uh- writings- to me."

"His writings are very good," Jimmy said, in his own defense- and Jack nodded.

"I take it this has been a tumultuous time," Jack said- and he said it with _sympathy -_ with a deep _compassion_, even- and it was absurd that such a simple thing should make Jimmy feel so much relieved- but it did.

"Yes, very tumultuous," Jimmy said- and then he felt a bubble of laughter force its errant way out from between his own lips- and then another, and another- and Jimmy laughed helplessly, for a long moment, listening with vague wonder as his own tones edged up towards hysteria. "I'm- _ha_- sorry- it's just all so- I don't even -_ha_- know what I'm _doing_ here-" Jimmy managed, between laughs- and he tried to take a drag from the cigarette- and ended up coughing.

"You were right to come here," Jack said- when Jimmy opened his eyes both he and Thomas were staring at Jimmy with some concern. "May I ask you a few more questions?"

"Yes," Jimmy said, nodding- and sipped his drink. His cards lay forgotten on the polished surface of the desk.

"Did you fight in the war?" Jack asked- and Jimmy nodded in unison with Thomas, who held up his own gloved hand, silently.

"Right. Do you have ill tempers? Black moods?" Jack asked, ticking off the questions on his fingers.

"_No_," Jimmy said, emphatically. "Well. Yes, _lately_," Jimmy amended. "But not like your _brother_-"

"No, I didn't think suh-_so_," Jack murmured. "One more. Have you ever had a- ah- a love affair before?"

"No," Jimmy said, in an undertone. "No, nothing like that. Like this. Um."

"Hmm. And you, Mr. Barrow," Jack said, looking over at him. "You followed him here? To prevent him from doing anything...rash?"

"I followed him because- yes," Thomas said, after a moment- and Jimmy saw Thomas busy himself with his cigarettes.

"I would like to again offer the Institute as a place you could both stuh-_stay_, if you choose," Jack said now, looking between them- and Jimmy wondered what conclusions the man had drawn, with his supposedly brilliant brain.

"Free of charge, of course," Jack added. "As my guests. The world is a difficult place- but _this _place is not difficult at _all_. Very understanding."

"You're offering us sanctuary," Jimmy said- his voice sounded hoarse in his own ears, now, and the statement came out as a croak.

"Why?" Thomas asked, challengingly- completing Jimmy's unvoiced thought.

"I _like_ you," Jack said, smiling. "Both of you. I feel badly for you. I feel that I _owe_ you suh-_some _great favor- but I cannot come up with one suh-_significant _enough to repay you. And- in terms of professional pride- I think that you, Jimmy, would benefit greatly- from having a suh-_psychiatrist _to speak to. Nothing _drastic,_ of course," Jack added, at Jimmy's expression. "Perhaps for an hour a week."

For a moment Jimmy imagined it- he and Thomas here- sharing a bed- sitting in the steam rooms- or moving among the strange dancers in the courtyard. The world seemed more distant than a dream, in this town- and especially atop the castle on Polkirt Hill. _And in the afternoons, we could walk down the street, _Jimmy thought, _and feel the breeze from the ocean-_

But no. Running away would solve nothing, Jimmy thought- he _felt _it, bone deep- in the same place that he felt Thomas's poems. _Perhaps someday_, Jimmy thought- _but today we have to go home. And face the music._ In Jimmy's head, the music was _The Rite of Spring_- ominous, and stirring.

"I'm sorry, we can't stay," Jimmy said.

"But if you're really so keen on _repayment,_" Thomas said, suddenly- "Could you- conduct these- hour-a-week conversations- by _telephone_?"

Jimmy turned to Thomas, surprised- but Thomas was looking at Jack.

"Ah- yes- of course," Jack said- and he cracked his knuckled again, looking quite pleased by the prospect. "If you would be amenable, Jimmy."

"I think I would," Jimmy said, after a pause.

"That's quite fine, then," Jack said- and he sprang excitedly to his feet. "We'll arrange a day and time- Mr. Barrow, you can suh-_see _to it that he's excused from his duties for the hour?"

"I can," Thomas said. _Until Mr. Carson returns, at any rate,_ Jimmy thought, grimly.

But in truth Jimmy felt- much _better_- as if a weight had been lifted from him- or would be. Dr. Hoyle- Dr. Courtenay- Jack- had not said that what the were doing was _wrong,_ or evil- he had merely said that they needed help. _That I need help_, Jimmy thought, with chagrin, as he wrote down his full name and address.

"And now-ah- the issue of the book," Jack said, a few moments later, when they all sat with exchanged information, and refilled glasses, and fresh cigarettes. Jack's professional manner was gone- and he seemed casual again, as if he were having a drink among old friends. "Part of this book does not belong to me," Jack added- and Jimmy nodded.

"We could cut the latter half out," Thomas offered. "And burn it," Thomas added, in a dark tone- and Jimmy pinched him, just above the knee.

"No," Jimmy said, forcibly. "I can't bear the thought of cutting it up."

"Well I don't want him to have all my _writings_," Thomas said, gritting his teeth.

"What if I just... read my portion, and then mail it back to you?" Jack volunteered- and Thomas scoffed. "Like you could resist reading the other half," Thomas said- and Jack grinned, widely. "I probably couldn't," Jack admitted, ducking his head. "But I swear to keep it _stuh_-strictly confidential."

"It's just a lot of soppy poetry," Thomas said- and he _snickered_, to Jimmy's surprise- but Thomas _had_ been drinking. "Can't we just cut it out?" Thomas asked Jimmy, imploringly- but Jimmy shook his head firmly _no_- and looked at Thomas with sincerity.

"Please don't make me do that," Jimmy said quietly, meeting Thomas's eyes. "I- I _hate_ the thought of _hurting_ it-"

"Alright, _alright_," Thomas said, and blew a loose strand of hair out of his own eyes. He looked very fine as he did it. _Thomas_, Jimmy thought, with sudden sharpness. _I _want_ you-_

"But if you breathe a word of what's written in there, I'll deny everything- an' make you sorry you ever said it," Thomas said, flatly, to Jack- and Jack smiled, again. "I wouldn't ever be suh-_so _discourteous," Jack said, earnestly.

"You know he wrote all his notes in there to you," Jimmy said, indicating the book. "The unknown- the _Lieutenant_, I mean. He loved you. Really very much."

"Thank you," Jack said, meeting Jimmy's eyes- as if it were something Jimmy had done, instead of the Lieutenant's actions.

"D'ya have a picture of him?" Jimmy asked- and Jack nodded- and turned around on the desk one of the framed photographs closest to himself, so that Jimmy could see it.

"Oh," Jimmy said- and he picked up the photograph by the frame. There was Lieutenant Courtenay, in his uniform, looking soberly at the camera. He was not odd in appearance, like his brother- all of the elements of Jack's face which verged on the- on the _bizarre-_ worked in perfect concordance in his late brother's handsome visage. And Edward Courtenay looked _nothing_ like Jimmy- his eyes, which were bright and direct, seemed to stare out of the photo and into Jimmy's face- and Jimmy looked away, feeling a sharp stab of jealousy.

But Thomas, leaning over his shoulder, only regarded the photo solemnly- and when his eyes strayed to Jimmy's face they grew much softer. '_Alright?_' Thomas mouthed- and Jimmy nodded, and looked around the room. "It's getting dark," Jimmy said- in fact it _was_ dark-and he had no idea how long they had been speaking with Jack for. "We should be taking our leave," Jimmy said, a touch regretfully. "We have to take two trains to get home."

"You could _suh_-spend the night, if you want," Jack offered- and Jimmy and Thomas exchanged a glance. "No," Thomas said, after a pause. "Our employment situation is... tenuous right now. I think we'd best be getting back."

"At least let me have one of my automobiles take you to the train stuh-_station_," Jack said, rising- and Jimmy gathered his cards, and picked up his valise. They went to the door, all together- and Jack held it open, and followed after them. Once they were outside of the closed office, Jack's voice changed instantly- he was Irish again, and _sans _stammer.

"I heard you say you had to take two trains," Jack said, leading them down the corridor. "Aren't you near Ripon?"

"Yes," Thomas said, making no comment on Jack's changed voice.

"You should take the sleeper train- it's newer- and it runs from Penzance all the way up to Sunderland," Jack advised them. Jimmy observed that Jack held the blue book under his arm, as if he were going to read it the moment they were out of sight. They passed down the great stairs- and Jimmy heard the intertwined melodies being played in the music room, and found in their noise some comfort. _My book_, Jimmy thought- and took a deep breath, to fortify himself against the pain of parting with it.

"It should come through the station in a hour or so. Has a great many stops, unfortunately," Jack went on- "but- _fortunately_- I know one of them is Easingwold, or Ripon, or something- something nearby to where you need to go."

"Good evening, Dr. Hoyle!" A woman- a patient- or _guest_- whatever they were- said- and Jack stopped, to speak with her.

"Ah. Miss Ashby-Sinclair," Jack said, with a smile. "I do hope the quality of your rest shall improve with this turn of the weather-"

"Yes, it's quite a pleasant change," the woman said- and while they were engaged in conversation, Jimmy mouthed the words '_sleeper train'_ at Thomas- who raised his eyebrows, the corners of his mouth turning up. Then Jack was finished speaking to the woman, and they continued into the modern wing, past the steam rooms- and to the lobby- where Miss Abernathy only glanced up from her book for long enough to confirm that they were not, in fact, trespassers.

"Miss Abernathy, could you have a car sent 'round," Jack began- but Jimmy shook his head. "We'll walk," Jimmy said. "I want to. That is," Jimmy added, to Thomas- "If you feel quite up to it?"

"I'm fine," Thomas said- and they paused at the doorway, looking out over the now-empty courtyard.

"Goodbye, and very good luck," Jack said- and he shook each of their hands in turn, still cradling the blue book in his other arm. "If you run in to any trouble, you're quite welcome here. And- Jimmy- I'll speak with you next Wednesday?"

"At three," Jimmy confirmed- and he shook Jack's hand with sincerity- and then looked down, to the journal. "Are you quite sure you're going to be able to- to _part_ with it?" Jimmy asked, anxiously- and Jack grinned, and nodded. "Never you fear," Jack said, stretching his free arm out, in a grand gesture. "I will return your book. I have a _very_ good memory- I will remember enough of it, I think. And knowing my brother as I do- as I did-" Jack added- "I think it may only bear one reading."

"It is rather grim," Jimmy agreed, with an answering smile- and he gave the blue book one last look- and turned, to follow Thomas through the door. They they were alone in the stone courtyard- and Jimmy glanced over at Thomas, who was studying him.

"D'ya feel a bit better, now?" Thomas asked, gently- and Jimmy nodded- and, in the dark, he took Thomas's bad hand with his good one.

"Much better," Jimmy said- and he turned, to make sure there was no soul in sight- and leaned up, to press his mouth to Thomas's. Thomas's lips, soft- and sweet to taste- parted against Jimmy's, and for a moment Jimmy was lost in the sensation of it- it sent shivers down his spine. "Mm. You taste like oranges," Jimmy said, in a low tone- and moved his face away.

"Ah. That's in your mind," Thomas said, thickly- and Thomas cleared his throat- and adjusted his tie- and they made their way away from the Institute, walking side by side. Jimmy tilted his head up- and drew a breath- at the lovely hazy corona of the moon, and the wash of scattered evening sky around it. "Look, Thomas," Jimmy said- and he pointed upwards- "Look at how beautiful the stars are!"


	13. Chapter 13

Alone, in the stone courtyard that served as an entrance into the singular body of the Harcourt Institute, Thomas took stock of Jimmy. "D'ya feel a bit better, now?" Thomas asked, carefully. Jimmy has seemed- _torn asunder_, if that wasn't too flowery of a way to put it- by the day, from morning all through, until just a few moments previous. If Thomas were to be entirely honest, Jimmy had seemed quite undone for _days_- sad and happy and lustful and delirious with pleasure- and angry- and _afraid_- in rapid pinwheels of emotion- each mood coming unexpectedly, to flicker along Jimmy's brow and over his well-sculpted face. Now Jimmy looked at Thomas with some composure- but he smiled, slightly- and he gripped Thomas's hand with his free one.

"Much better," Jimmy said- and he turned, as if to make sure there was nobody to bear witness to the pair of them- and kissed Thomas's mouth. Jimmy's lip was cut, by Thomas's own hand- and in addition to that, it had swelled- just on the edge, where his mouth had caught the topmost part of Thomas's blow to his face- and it had a particular taste- a hint of blood, just below the surface of the skin. Thomas felt a sharp flare of guilt- but it diminished, replaced by something more urgent- as their kiss went on.

"Mm. You taste like oranges," Jimmy said, quietly- and he stepped back, drawing a long breath. Thomas saw Jimmy shudder, slightly, as he leaned away- however it did not seem to be from _fright_- and Thomas suppressed a shudder of his own. Thomas's head spun- the scotch and the effect that Jimmy had on him making the shadows seem to- dance, of their own accord.

"Ah. That's in your mind," Thomas answered, after a beat- and he cleared his throat, trying not to betray himself overly. For a moment he felt Jimmy's eyes on him, and he thought of all Jimmy had betrayed about _himself,_ up in Jack Courtenay's cluttered office. _He's frightened and he unused to feeling this way- to feeling anything, anything at all,_ Thomas mused, taking in Jimmy's shadowed features. _What a mystery you are to yourself, Jimmy._ But not to _Thomas, _he wasn't- not _so_ much, not anymore. Jimmy was complex- but Jimmy _cared_ for him, so deeply that it had provoked him to do all manner of strange things-

"Look, Thomas," Jimmy said, in a clear voice that was not his usual tone- "Look at how beautiful the stars are!" Jimmy had inclined his head up- and with his free hand he pointed- towards the moon, and the swirl of gleaming stars that haloed it. The sky was a deep blue that edged into black- vast, like oceans. Much vaster, in fact.

The stars were _moderately_ beautiful, Thomas thought- worth a poem or two in his leisure time- but their fascinating qualities paled in comparison to the change in the man beside him.

_Don't trust it,_ Thomas told himself. _You've seen his moods come and go faster than anything- he's not reliable._ And yet- and yet Thomas _did_ trust it- he believed, for better or worse, that everything Jimmy had said in the questionable Doctor _Hoyle's _rooms had been in earnest.

"Did he help you very much?" Thomas inquired- and Jimmy sighed, as if the sigh itself were a response- and then, to Thomas's utter surprise, Jimmy wound his valise-less arm across Thomas's back, holding him 'round the waist. Though they had done more- _much_ more- when it came to embraces, Thomas felt heat rush to his cheeks, and he thanked the darkness for hiding his blush. There was something- _possessive_- in the way that Jimmy touched him. It had never before been so, Thomas thought. Jimmy had shied away from him except in circumstances of direst want. But then, today, on the train-

Thomas shook his head. Had it really been only today? _Today_ had stretched on for a thousand years- and it went on still.

"Help me? I think- mmm- I think so," Jimmy said- and with his words he squeezed Thomas's side, making Thomas let out a pained grunt.

"_Oh_, my god, I'm sorry," Jimmy said, withdrawing his hand, a bit, but keeping his arm around Thomas. "I forgot about your-ah-"

"I don't know how he helped you so much," Thomas said, consideringly, and Jimmy inclined his head.

"What d'ya mean?" Jimmy asked.

"He didn't _say_ anything," Thomas answered. "He only asked you some leading questions."

"Yes. I think Junior Jack might actually be a genius after all," Jimmy said. "Suh-_sort've_," Jimmy added, imitating Courtenay's stammer. Thomas laughed, a little cruelly. If Jack Courtenay could help Jimmy, then he wasn't, perhaps, _all_ bad... but he was still a _rotter_, in Thomas's opinion.

"That's what was so clever about it, though," Jimmy went on, softly. "I wouldn't have listened to anybody but myself. He made me answer my _own_ questions. Y'see- I was telling myself it was only- only... _desire_- but then he made me see that I have- maybe all along- I've been..."

Jimmy did not say what he'd _been_ doing, all along- but he did, after a pause, continue to speak. "I've always felt as if I was all- all I _had_. And if I lost myself, then I- and to- to _trust _somebody else is... like stepping onto a ledge..."

"You should trust me," Thomas said, very seriously. The idea of Jimmy feeling so alone- _wounded_ him, somehow, as though Jimmy's troubles had become _Thomas's _troubles.

"I..." Jimmy looked at him- and even in the night Thomas could see that Jimmy's eyes were shining, and that he was smiling. At Thomas's back Jimmy's arm trembled- but still he held it there, creating a warm stripe along Thomas's skin, in counterpoint to the air- which had- finally- turned cool, and brought with it the scent of the sea, and a feeling that the seasons were changing at long last.

"I do trust you," Jimmy said, after a few moments- and then he laughed- a low, pleasing sound that came from his chest. "You're the Little Mermaid. You'd throw yourself into the waves for me."

"Now," Thomas said- scowling half in jest at the ridiculous comparison- "There's no need to call me _names_-"

"No. I- I'm _not,_" Jimmy returned- and then Jimmy inclined his head downwards, and looked up at Thomas. A lock of Jimmy's hair had not been caught by his still damp-looking cap, and it obscured his right eye, partially, as he gazed up at Thomas. _You're lovely, you're handsome and lovely and I love you,_ Thomas thought- and Jimmy smiled sweetly, as if in response to the very unspoken words.

"I just... I think that when you lo- when you _care_ for someone, it shows what kind of man you really are," Jimmy went on- and he inclined his head closer, so that he was all but leaning against Thomas as they walked.

"And you- you're a _good_ man, when you're in love," Jimmy went on- his voice was quiet, but firm. "You're kind. Don't scoff- you are. You're kind and- and _generous_- and patient-"

"Many people wouldn't say it was so," Thomas countered, feeling both embarrassed and oddly gratified.

"You haven't loved any of those people," Jimmy replied, firmly. "I see how good you are. But I see more than that- I'm _not_ good, Thomas, not even when I... uh- but if you love me anyhow, then..."

Jimmy's voice trembled, a touch- but Thomas, taking a look over at him, did not read anger or upset on Jimmy's face.

"I don't love you _anyhow_," Thomas said, pointedly. Thomas took the measure of his own thoughts, and found that he was temporarily beyond the point of embarrassment. "I don't love you _anyhow_," Thomas said again, halting his stride, and waiting until Jimmy met his eyes. "I love you _because_. Like you and- and my- ah- _poems_. Those things I write- excuse me, Jimmy, if I'm wrong- but I don't think you have to get _past_ the fact that I... do that- to enjoy my company. "

Apparently Jimmy did take Thomas's meaning- because Jimmy took a long inhalation of breath, and replied, his mouth beginning to curve into a smile- "Yes. _Yes_, that's exactly it. I- ah- like you all the more for it. Yes. Exactly."

Jimmy was squeezing Thomas too tightly again, making his side ache- but Thomas could not find it within himself to step away. Above them the breeze, tinged with salt, fanned out the dark shapes of leaves against their native branches. The moon cast a vague light on Jimmy's features- and Thomas, feeling bold- he had now, he thought, succumbed entirely to the wiles of Hope, as he had feared he would- reached his gloved hand around Jimmy's back, and touched Jimmy's shoulder. Thomas ran his fingertips up the line of Jimmy's neck and into his hair- and Jimmy sighed, audibly.

"Mmm. A train with sleeper-cars," Jimmy murmured, leaning into Thomas's touch. "That means a _bed_, doesn't it?"

"That's the general idea of the thing, I think," Thomas answered, glibly- and Jimmy smiled at him again. Prickly Jimmy suddenly did not mind, so much, being teased- and _that_ warmed Thomas, too. Thomas remembered one of his father's favorite adages- _Actions speak louder than words_- and found that, in the case of Jimmy, he was entirely in agreement. If he divorced Jimmy's _actions_ from his words, from their bizarre circumstance, Thomas mused- perhaps the tale those actions told was- was _simple_- more simple than he had dared to dream.

"This wind is wonderful," Jimmy said, his eyes cast in Thomas's direction- and then he dropped his arm away from where it ringed Thomas's waist, moving a few paces ahead- and turned in a slow circle, spinning his valise. "I don't feel stifled for a change!"

Thomas grinned- broadly enough that it must have been visible even in the dark- because Jimmy halted his movements, and said, quizzically, "What's so amusing, then?"

"It's nice to see you like this," Thomas answered, measuredly- and Jimmy, his brow lifting, asked: "See me like what?"

Thomas tried to think of how to frame his answer- but Jimmy was walking again, with his head upturned- and Jimmy hummed, softly, a tune that Thomas didn't recognize- maybe a tune that Jimmy had invented, out of his own musician's brain. And then Thomas knew that Jimmy _had_ made up the tune, because he began to sing Thomas's words along to it.

"_The halls are hallowed evening-style, the faces have no names-"_ Jimmy sang, his voice bouncing off of the trunks of trees, and creating an odd amphitheatre effect-

_"The embers crackle all the while, darling burning us in flames-_  
_Darling on your noble quest_  
_Your crusade and your artful craft-_  
_Upon your kissed and kissing lips_  
_The solemn antidote carafe-"_

Jimmy's voice grew louder, until he was belting out the words, with laughter in his tone, and Thomas hissed at him to be quiet. But admonishment only made Jimmy laugh harder- and he ducked out of Thomas's reach, and sang all the more loudly for it.

_"Oh poison, poison, sunder neatly me,"_ Jimmy went on, sweeping his free arm dramatically over his head, as if he were onstage-  
_"And turn my slimmer waters into waves,_  
_And drowned and drowning be, Eurydice,_  
_The arch that heaven meets, the love that nearly saves, _  
_The backward turn, the backward glance, the loom of fate and tapestry-"_

Jimmy went on, and probably _would_ have gone on- but Thomas found it within his weary bones to stride with brisk mock-menace towards Jimmy, looking sublimely annoyed- until Jimmy broke off, and put his hands up, as if in defense.

"Oh, don't hurt me, Mi'lord, it's only that I'm such a _serious_ admirer or your _works_," Jimmy said, chuckling- and Thomas bared his own teeth in a ridiculous grimace.

"The artist is not pleased," Thomas said, haughtily- and that sent Jimmy off into hysterics. Jimmy clutched Thomas's shoulder as he laughed, his fingers warmer than the night air.

The train pushed through the night effortlessly, like a spoon through cream- and no sooner had the it halted at the station than Jimmy and Thomas were boarding it. Thomas, who had no great faith in Jack Courtenay's trustworthiness, was relieved to discover that the mysterious overnight train existed after all, and that it had a stop in Easingwold, where they could get a ride home. And then Thomas could begin the painful process of placating Mrs. Hughes.

_The painful process of polite placation, _Thomas thought, idly. Jimmy strode through the train's narrow aisle, ahead of him, and Thomas recalled chasing the other man through the London station- and he felt a shiver of guilt, again, at how he had struck Jimmy. But now the narrowness of the aisles was not _trench_-narrow, but intimate, somehow- and Thomas was not chasing Jimmy down- he was following him, instead, to an undiscovered room.

"I don't know why you had me pay for a _soft _car, whatever that means," Jimmy groused, now, turning to speak to Thomas over his shoulder, as they idled in the slow-moving queue of boarding passengers. "It was much more dear. An' the one on the cheap-"

"I told you I'd pay you back," Thomas replied, in an undertone, doing his best to keep a straight face.

"You'd better. I'm impoverished, now," Jimmy said.

Thomas raised one eyebrow. "And who's fault-"

"Oh, shut it," Jimmy put back- and then he checked the plaque on a door. "We're 302," Jimmy said, to Thomas- and they stopped, finally, when the shuffling crowd had led them to the appropriate door.

Jimmy held the narrow door open, and gestured for Thomas to go in. "After _you,_" Jimmy said, as Thomas sidled past him, in a tone reserved for work- and Thomas snorted- and then fell silent, looking at the cabin.

The room was exceedingly small, but it boasted two little beds- each bolted into opposite sides of the wall- with just enough space for a body to move between them. The reason for the cost was evident immediately to Thomas- it was well-appointed, more well-appointed than anything Thomas had seen on the train to London. _This is a place where the Family would stay, not us,_ Thomas thought- and the idea of it made him smile. The walls of the room were panels, of carved and polished mahogany- and the wood glowed in the light of the lamps, with an attractive reddish tone that made Thomas think of grandfather clocks, and inlaid bookshelves, and other luxuries. The bedclothes were all of a delicate blue gray, paired in a consciously complimentary way with the jewel tones of the walls. A standing ashtray was bolted to the floor by the entrance, and nightstand filled what little space there was between the beds- or, more accurately, the _bunks_- and that was hardly any space at all. Despite the cramped interior, every inch of the cabin belied opulence and comfort.

Jimmy was staring at the room with an expression of perplexity- and when Thomas turned to him, Jimmy said, slowly, "This is like... ah. This is nice." There was color rising in Jimmy's cheeks- and the sight of it made the rhythm of Thomas's heart uptick.

"A _soft_ sleeper car," Thomas said, smoothly, "is a nicer car. One bed- two at most, like the one we got, so as to stay within the bounds of...uh. Propriety. A hard sleeper car is dormitory style. You and I and some other chappies all cozied up together."

"Ah," Jimmy said, in a small voice. "Don't look so smug, I've never traveled first-class before," Jimmy added, laying his valise on the bed situated to the right.

Under their feet the train began, slowly, to move- and Jimmy paused- he had, Thomas noticed importantly, been taking off his jacket- and looked at the floor, as if it would divulge the mystery of the motion. "Farewell, Mevagissey," Jimmy said- and though he said it lightly, when he turned his eyes to Thomas's, Thomas read something solemn in Jimmy's expression. "Goodbye, Harcourt Institute, and so long to my blue book."

"It's fine," Thomas said- and some of his recently gained sense of confidence in Jimmy-related matters made him put his good hand to Jimmy's arm. "That little- uh, _bloke_- said he'd mail it back to you."

"You were going to call him a _bugger_, weren't you?" Jimmy asked, his eyes crinkling at the corners with mirth.

"I wasn't," Thomas said, with exaggerated sincerity.

"Good. Because that would be hypocrisy," Jimmy said, pointedly- and then he snickered.

Thomas felt a little drunk, still- the lightest of headaches touched on the edge of his awareness- and it occurred to him that, although Jimmy had seemed sober enough when they were in Courtenay's office, his levity could be partially accounted for by scotch.

Apparently Jimmy was having similar thoughts- because he smirked, as he looked into Thomas's face, and asked- "Are you a bit tight, Mr. Barrow?"

"No," Thomas said, immediately. "Are _you_?"

"No," Jimmy answered, meeting his stare. Thomas watched as Jimmy reached out and bolted the door of the cabin, almost absently, his eyes still in the vicinity of Thomas's face.

"I wish I could write poetry," Jimmy said, suddenly- and so sincerely that Thomas forced back the amusement that longed to be writ large on his countenance.

"Dreadful hobby. Terrible waste of time," Thomas said, shaking his head- but Jimmy only kept looking at him- until Thomas asked, in a quieter tone: "Why d'ya wish that?"

"It's less open to interpretation than the piano," Jimmy replied, as if that answered the question somehow. Then Jimmy tossed his suitjacket onto the bed, with a carelessness that he would not have employed in his work, and made to push past Thomas, to the empty cot on the left hand side. For a moment their bodies were pressed together- and Jimmy looked into Thomas's face. They were close enough to one another that Thomas could feel the press of Jimmy's chest as it rose and fell- and Jimmy did not back away- and he did not close his eyes, as if in denial of the tension between them- but held still, studying Thomas's face.

"I- almost- went to bed with a girl, one evening, during the war," Jimmy said- his voice hitting notes even and low. "She had eyes like yours. I wanted you before I even knew I wanted you."

The levity had gone from Jimmy's face- but he did not drop his gaze from Thomas's. The orange-toned light from the lamp, which touched the walls and bedclothes of the room in such an appealing way, worked their charms even more perfectly upon Jimmy's visage. Thomas thought that Jimmy, who always walked in beauty, had never been finer than he was at that very moment.

"You're so clever," Jimmy added- though Thomas had said nothing to prompt such praise.

"Naturally," Thomas said, keeping his face neutral- and it worked- Jimmy smiled, at Thomas's arrogance- and then, having bestowed a smile, he leaned forward, and pressed his wounded mouth to Thomas's lips.

"Mmm," Jimmy said- it was almost a hum- and when he pulled back, after too-brief a period of time, Jimmy was short of breath. Thomas could feel it in Jimmy's body against his own- the rise and fall of his lungs.

"Once," Jimmy said- and his voice broke- so that he had to take a moment to visibly compose himself, before he began to speak again. Thomas watched, holding as still as he was able, so as to not break whatever spell had fallen between them.

"_Once_," Jimmy said again, drawing a breath- "life seemed to me the way it does now."

"The way it seems now?" Thomas replied, making the question evident in his own voice.

"Yes," Jimmy said, firmly. "After my mother died."

It was such a non sequitur that Thomas blinked, he could think of no reply- but Jimmy drew another breath- and laid his arms around Thomas's waist, before speaking again.

"I couldn't believe my good fortune when I lived through the war," Jimmy said- and he suddenly bent forward, as if pushed by an unseen hand- and laid his head against Thomas's chest, between his shoulder and his heart. Thomas felt a strand of Jimmy's hair brush against his neck- and then Jimmy dropped his hold, and gripped Thomas's hands, tugging them up, a bit. Thomas inferred Jimmy's meaning, and put his arms around Jimmy in return, so that they were each embraced by the other.

"Father was dead, and that was very sad, of course," Jimmy continued, not lifting his head from Thomas's chest. "But Mother and I were alive, and well- and that was much more than I had hoped for. It was _too_ much to hope for- an' then the influenza came, and took her away from me."

"I'm sorry," Thomas said, feeling utterly at a loss for words- but Jimmy shook his head without lifting it, and Thomas fell silent.

"If it'd been... a lingering illness- perhaps I would've felt the way I did _before_ she died," Jimmy murmured- his voice did not hold any deep emotion, and yet Thomas felt the weight of each word fall upon his ears with some heavy intensity.

"But I had no time to prepare. So it was only after- when she was- was _gone_- that things seemed to be that way."

"What way?" Thomas asked. Thomas tilted his chin blindly downwards, bowing his head, until his lips found the edge of Jimmy's ear- and Thomas kissed his ear, very gently. Jimmy shivered- and wound his arms more tightly around Thomas.

"They seemed... _magical_," Jimmy said. "Not like something wonderful. Not like a fairy story. But so- so full of meaning- of significance. In a restaurant they would have made a specialty of her favorite meal- or I would cross the street and see a woman in a hat just _like_ hers getting onto a cab- and the rain would stop the moment I went out-of-doors, even if it had been raining all morning-"

Now Jimmy lifted his head, looking up, into Thomas's face. Jimmy's eyes were wide, but he did not seem to be on the verge of weeping- Thomas saw an odd serenity in Jimmy's features that bequeathed unto Jimmy a hint of dignity.

"It was like living in a dream," Jimmy said, after a moment. "If I had gone home for a visit- and she was there, opening the door- I would have thought nothing of it. As if anything could have happened then. Anything," Jimmy added, "Anything at all. But nothing did. And the universe isn't laid out for only me, myself... even if I feel it sometimes is. I could never say later if any of it was real- or only the trick of a grieving mind-"

"Riots in a theatre," Thomas said, as something made sudden sense to him- and he clamped his mouth shut- but Jimmy only nodded, looking urgently upwards, into his eyes.

"_Yes_, like that," Jimmy agreed. "I couldn't tell if it was meaningful- or meaningless."

_Meaning less than what?_ Thomas thought, remembering the exchange they had shared on the day of their picnic- and he tightened his grip on Jimmy, pulling them closer together.

"But ever since I found my- your- the _soldier's_ journal, I've felt that way again," Jimmy said- and with this admission he blushed- and averted his eyes from Thomas's. "Not to say that it hasn't been _difficult_ for me," Jimmy added, hastily.

"You don't say," Thomas replied, dryly- but he did not loose his hold on Jimmy, and Jimmy did not move away from him.

"But it all seems so- the weather, Thomas, didn't you notice when it changed?" Jimmy asked- and he went on, not waiting for Thomas's answer. "And Carson leaving? Or that bobby not arresting us? And- I _still_- the way I took your book, it is a puzzlement to me- and the oranges, we _never_ get oranges, and without them I'd have had no excuse to touch you-"

"Maybe you touched me 'cause you wanted to," Thomas said, carefully.

But Jimmy was not upset by this dissent- he only put back, smartly: "An' maybe I needed an _excuse_."

For a moment their eyes locked again- and Jimmy removed his hand from Thomas's waist, and pushed back an errant lock of Thomas's hair. Thomas felt that Jimmy's fingertips were hot to the touch- so much so that Thomas, briefly, wondered if the other man was not afflicted by a fever- but then he remembered that they had been imbibing.

"Can't you see what I mean?" Jimmy asked- he searched Thomas with a look. "You're a poet, you could find beauty in a grain of _sand_, or whatever they say."

"I don't know if everything that happens is orchestrated by- by _God_, or something, if that's what you're asking," Thomas answered, after a pause. "But it's very meaningful to me."

For some reason that had been the right thing to say- Jimmy smiled, with his eyes only- and kissed the corner of Thomas's mouth.

"I don't even know what I'm on about," Jimmy said, vaguely- and he moved his hips, ever so slightly, against Thomas. "Just speakin' my thoughts aloud, I suppose."

Thomas, caught by an unignorable impulse- brought on by bravado, probably- put his lips to Jimmy's ear, and said- "The days were replete with unbearable _heat_- and the nights were quite full of the _same_-"

Thomas leaned back, shifting his head- and catching a perfect glance at Jimmy's face. Jimmy had gone quite still, his cheeks red, and his eyes half and Thomas leaned to his other ear, and whispered in that one, in turn. "An' if I was _lost_- to the charm of your _thoughts_- I have only my damned self to _blame_-"

Thomas felt Jimmy bob in his arms, as if Jimmy's knees had decided to give out and then thought better of themselves, at the last moment- and Jimmy drew a breath- as if he had been waiting for air until Thomas had finished speaking.

"L-let's sit down," Jimmy said, in a rather strained-sounding voice- and Thomas nodded, a sank backwards, onto the right-hand bed. Thomas's body cried out at the relief of the bed- his bruised body ached from a day of traveling- and this bed was a bit softer than their cots at home. It was wider, too, Thomas thought- just a touch, but enough that they could-

"I want to get undressed," Jimmy said, suddenly- he had come to sit next to Thomas, and the heat of Jimmy's leg pressed to Thomas's thigh, making Thomas's stomach clench with the start of heady lust.

"Me also," Thomas agreed- and Jimmy smiled at him- and then his mouth flattened out, and he looked at Thomas with wide, troubled eyes.

"You may not be able to tell," Jimmy said, "but I'm quite frightened. About all of this."

For a second Thomas was convinced that Jimmy was _joking_- it was so _clear_ that Jimmy was afraid- but some wiser impulse kept him from laughing- and he only looked back at Jimmy's serious face.

"You are?" Thomas asked, measuredly- and Jimmy nodded back at him, as if he had made Thomas privileged to a great secret- and then Jimmy, with a trembling hand, reached his hand up, pressing his fingers to Thomas's mouth.

"Yes," Jimmy whispered. "But I'm being very brave." Then Jimmy turned slightly away, drawing his hand back, and began to undo the buttons on his shirt.

Thomas watched Jimmy for a moment, and then followed suit, carefully folding his uniform jacket- and then his shirt- and then his trousers, leaning forward with each article the place it in a neat pile on the bed opposite them. Jimmy threw his own clothes carelessly across the cabin- they fell slowly down, in the chamber that rocked with the movements of the train, and came to rest untidily, on or beside Jimmy's valise.

When Thomas looked again Jimmy was naked- and he sat before Thomas, concealing no part of his body. Jimmy was partially hard- and Thomas's gaze lingered on the jut of Jimmy's cock, rising from between his thighs- and then his dragged his eyes upwards, to study Jimmy's face. Jimmy was studying Thomas's nakedness with a marked intensity- and Thomas saw Jimmy's chest rise and fall, very slowly.

"Tell me what we have to do," Jimmy said- and Thomas, confused, shook his head. "Any- anything y'like," Thomas answered- and Jimmy shook his head, a firm _no_.

"I know how it begins," Jimmy said- and he averted his eyes, looking chagrined- and then rose, grabbing at the edge of the blue-grey coverlet. "Get under here with me. I know how to start- I- I did it to myself, once."

"What?" Thomas asked, bemused. He followed Jimmy under the covers- and their bodies pressed near to one another, cocooned by blankets.

"I did it to myself," Jimmy said again. He had turned towards Thomas, with a chagrined look upon his features. " Months ago. I didn't even think about why I was doin' it. I swear, Thomas. I didn't even think about it _again_, until now- I..." Jimmy paused- and laughed, once, bringing his hand to his face.

"What're we talkin' about exactly?" Thomas asked- and he took the hand Jimmy covered his face with, pulling it back gently, and entwining their fingers. Jimmy grimaced at Thomas- Thomas saw that Jimmy was flushed a deep crimson- and Jimmy dropped their entwined hands. "Give me your fingers," Jimmy said, closing his eyes, for an instant. "I can't describe it. It's... lewd."

"Alright," Thomas said, raising an eyebrow- but he offered his good hand to Jimmy- and Jimmy brought it to his own cut-up mouth- and Thomas stifled a gasp when Jimmy drew two of Thomas's fingers between his teeth, and applied a pressure to them with his lips and tongue.

"Ah- _ah_- I see," Thomas said, unsteadily. "You sucked on your fingers. Well, that's perfectly natural, lots of infants do it-"

Jimmy withdrew Thomas's hand, scowling- but his eyes danced with amusement. "You know what I damned well _mean_," Jimmy said- but the levity seemed to have assuaged Jimmy's nerves somewhat- and he brought one shaking hand, tenderly, to touch Thomas's cheek.

"I want you to do it to me," Jimmy said.

"Alright," Thomas said, matching his tone to Jimmy's. "But we can do a bit better. I don't suppose you brought any petroleum jelly with you."

"Uh... pertrol- ah, _no_," Jimmy said, shaking his head. "I have hand cream-" he offered- and Thomas nodded. Jimmy rolled out of the bed- and rooted around in his valise, for a moment- before coming back, with a jar, which he offered to Thomas.

Thomas unscrewed the lid, and spread the lotion- on two fingers of his good hand, trying not to fumble under Jimmy's intense scrutiny. "Did you... _like_ it?" Thomas asked, his tone absurdly conversational.

"I didn't get- I wasn't _aroused_ by it, if that's what you mean," Jimmy answered, his eyes still fixed upon Thomas's hands. "It felt very... strange. Like touching yourself in a place you shouldn't. I felt..."

"Vulnerable," Thomas finished, drawing on his own experience to supply the correct adjective.

"Yes," Jimmy said, softly. "That." Still his eyes had not moved from Thomas's fingers.

"We don't have to-" Thomas began- and Jimmy waved off his sentiment, with a gesture. "Nobody has a knife to my throat," Jimmy said. "I want it. Do this to me."

Thomas thought of Jimmy, and his easy lies, and his duplicitousness over the book- his sudden rages- and Thomas felt as if all of that- Jimmy in every incarnation, every mood and moment- had been true and yet false- as if he had never seen Jimmy so completely, until now.

"You're trembling," Jimmy informed him- but Thomas doubted that this was an accurate estimation. The rhythm of the train made it seem as though _everything _was trembling.

"Should I turn over?" Jimmy asked- now his voice was weaker, less decisive- but he met Thomas's eyes boldly, as if to say _I know precisely what I am doing, and don't question me about it, please._

"If you like," Thomas said- and when Jimmy still looked unsure, Thomas shook his head _no_. "Put your leg over my hip," Thomas said- and Jimmy complied. Thomas glanced underneath the covers as Jimmy moved his body, and saw that Jimmy was completely hard, now- his cock almost against his own taut abdomen.

"Am I hurting you?" Jimmy asked, sounding worried, as he rested the weight of one muscled thigh against Thomas's hipbone- but Thomas shook his head. "You feel good, actually," Thomas said- and Jimmy shuddered, as if the sentiment worked upon him in some physical way- but he did not look away from Thomas's face- not even when Thomas' moved his arm down- he traced one finger against the underside of Jimmy's hardon, briefly, drawing another shiver from Jimmy- and traced lower- through the dusting of hair- and lower still, lightly over the sensitive flesh underneath that had tightened with arousal- and stopped, when he reached Jimmy's arse.

"Do it quick," Jimmy said- his face was screwed up with the anticipation of pain. "No," Thomas said- Jimmy's eyes flashed fire, for a moment, at being denied. "You think it's going to hurt, which means you went too quickly when you did it to _yourself_," Thomas informed him. "You need to take a long breath."

"I _am_," Jimmy said- and Thomas chuckled. "Another one."

Jimmy dutifully inhaled and exhaled, rolling his eyes. "Aren't _you_ the expert," Jimmy groused.

"In this room, I am," Thomas said, agreeably. His words sounded normal- though his heart was thudding away in his chest as if he were running.

"Ready?" Thomas asked.

"_Yes_," Jimmy said, with a faint note of exasperation in his voice.

"Good. When I press against you- into you- push _down_, with your muscles, alright?" Thomas asked- and Jimmy raised an eyebrow- but nodded an affirmative.

"Ready," Thomas said- his heartbeat was pounding loud in his own ears- and his own aroused body was urgently making desire known to him, erasing the ache of his battered torso- but Thomas ignored all of this, and pressed one finger- very slowly- into Jimmy's body.

"Ah," Jimmy said- but he kept his breaths even and long- and Thomas brought his free hand to Jimmy's chest, tracing a loose pattern across Jimmy's breastbone- the most comforting touch he could think of.

"Does it hurt?" Thomas asked.

"No," Jimmy said- his voice was strained, but his answer was clear. "It feels alright."

Thomas pushed upward- Jimmy was _tight_, and his muscles clenched and contracted around Thomas's finger- and then Thomas hit upon the spot he had been looking for- and stroked the tip of his finger against it. Jimmy's reaction was immediate- his eyes widened- and he pushed _back_, against Thomas's hand. "_Oh_," Jimmy said- his voice was hoarse- and he inched forward, barely moving anything except his head- and put his hands to Thomas's face, holding Thomas's head still.

"Is that al-" Thomas began to say- but Jimmy cut him off with a kiss- pressing their mouths deeply together, and parting Thomas's lips with his tongue. Thomas kissed him back, matching Jimmy's ardor with his own- and while they kissed he rubbed his fingertip inside of Jimmy again, and again, until Jimmy drew away from him, with a moan. "_Oh_, christ, that feels good," Jimmy said- he exhaled a long, broken gust of air. "Ah- mm- Thomas- wait, wait-"

"Yes, I'm waiting," Thomas said, going perfectly still- and Jimmy looked at him, with eyes that had been mostly swallowed up by his pupils.

"Show me how to do that to you," Jimmy said, lowly- and Thomas chuckled- until Jimmy brushed his hand against the head of Thomas's prick- and then his laughter stopped abruptly, driven out of him by lust.

"It's not physically possible for us to bugger each other at the same time," Thomas said, grinning. "Or maybe it is. But we're not acrobats, so I doubt the pair of _us_ could manage-"

"I know _that_," Jimmy said. "I just... I want to..." Jimmy voice got lower, and lower still- as he spoke, so when he finished it was in a murmur. "I want to make you feel good. That's- it's very good."

"You make me feel good, Jimmy," Thomas said, roughly- and he kissed Jimmy's swollen mouth, feeling a tightness in his chest that was purely emotional. "May I go on now?"

"Nghh. Fine, yes, please," Jimmy said, quietly. "Yes."

Thomas withdrew his hand- and Jimmy grimaced at him- but Thomas only added another lotion-slicked finger, pushing back inside of Jimmy.

"Agh- _be careful_," Jimmy admonished, though Thomas had moved even slower than before.

"I am _being_ careful," Thomas said- and Jimmy cracked a smile. He had placed one palm flat against Thomas's chest, as if he were trying to shove Thomas away- but there was no force in the touch- and with his other hand Jimmy reached down, past Thomas's wrist- and Thomas felt Jimmy's fingers wrap around his erection. Thomas made some sound at the sudden pleasure of it- Jimmy's hand worked upon him like fire, spreading outwards from his cock and through his body, tightening the muscles of his abdomen, and making him rock forward, into the embrace of Jimmy's hand.

"Yes," Jimmy breathed, looking into Thomas's face. "That's right."

"Jimmy, stop," Thomas said, forcing his own hips to be still, though his body was telling him to thrust roughly into Jimmy's touch.

"I am _trying_ to concentrate," Thomas said, when Jimmy did not immediately remove his hand- and Jimmy smirked, and trailed his fingers around the head of Thomas's penis- and then up and away, across his abdomen.

"It's so strange," Jimmy said, looking with overbright eyes at Thomas- "That I should be as much concerned with your pleasure as... my own."

"That's not strange," Thomas put back. "Just good manners."

"It's strange that I should suddenly have good manners," Jimmy retorted- and he and Thomas both snickered- and then Jimmy stopped laughing, when Thomas moved his fingers within Jimmy again.

"_Ahn_, ye-yes, that's good," Jimmy said- he had one palm to Thomas's chest, still, and one flat on his abdomen- and Jimmy's pulse was so elevated that Thomas could_ feel_ it- in each of Jimmy's hands, and also _inside_ of Jimmy, throbbing in time with the motion of the train. Thomas moved his hand back, and forward and back again- pausing in his ministrations to rub against the spot within Jimmy that made Jimmy's muscles contract and his jaw go slack with pleasure.

"Am I- am I ready now?" Jimmy said tightly, after a few moments. Thomas looked up at him- he had been lost, lost in the responses of Jimmy's body to his hands- and he blinked, looking at the fevered brilliance of Jimmy's gaze.

"I think you are, yes," Thomas answered- and Jimmy gritted his teeth, nodding. "Good," Jimmy said- and when Thomas removed his hand Jimmy hissed, again- but then his mouth was on Thomas's and he was kissing Thomas with a vigor that bordered on ferocity. Jimmy took Thomas's lower lip between his teeth, and tugged on it- and Thomas ran his clean hand over Jimmy's head, until one of the buttons of his glove tangled in Jimmy's hair, and Jimmy pulled back, with a noise of irritation. "Take that thing off," Jimmy said- and Thomas complied, with hands that shook.

No sooner had Thomas divested himself of his glove than Jimmy was kissing his hand- and Thomas gripped Jimmy's hand in return, incidentally smearing lotion on it- but Jimmy made no protest. He turned his lips from Thomas's hand to his cheek- first one and then the other- and pulled away, to look in Thomas's eyes.

"Why do you love me?" Jimmy asked, suddenly- and Thomas, who had, in all honesty, been expecting a demand of a poetry recitation, was taken aback. "I..." Thomas began- but Jimmy looked at him earnestly. "Is it my _voice_? My _face_? My body? My wit, when I'm witty?" Jimmy asked- and Thomas heard a fraught emotion in Jimmy's voice- and pulled Jimmy closer to him. Between their bodies their erections pressed against one another, and Thomas bit back a moan of pleasure.

"I love you for your mind," Thomas said- and he _meant _it- Jimmy's mind had revealed unplumbed depths of emotions deep and dark, running under the world like water, like invisible cities. "I love you for your mind, Jimmy. I love you for that. I couldn't bear to be without you."

Jimmy closed his eyes, and took one hitching breath- it sounded almost like a sob- leaning his forehead against Thomas's cheek. "You love me for who I really am?" Jimmy asked- and his voice sounded smaller than ever it had- and yet stronger, in some way- as if he had been buoyed up by Thomas's words.

"Yes," Thomas said- and he looked straight into Jimmy's eyes, to convey the depth of his feeling. "I do."

"Oh god, thank god," Jimmy said- he said it half to himself, as if it were not intended for Thomas at all- but Thomas held him firmly, and hissed Jimmy's cheek and brow. In the lamplight Jimmy looked at if he had been wrought entirely from gold- his skin and hair and lashes shone in the orange dimness of the room- and Jimmy stared back at Thomas as if he had been confronted by a creature of beauty equal to his own. Which was, Thomas thought, impossible- and he kissed Jimmy all the more ardently for it- for the pleasure of seeing that feeling reflected back towards himself.

"Take me, now," Jimmy commanded, breaking their string of kisses- and Thomas snickered at him, until Jimmy glowered, and ruffled Thomas's hair. "Yes, sir," Thomas said- and he knocked off a salute- and then frowned- he could see that Jimmy's expression had become uneasy- but Jimmy met his gaze unwaveringly.

"Tell me honestly how much it will hurt," Jimmy said- and Thomas studied him, thinking.

"It will hurt more this first time than ever again," Thomas said, after a pause- and he felt Jimmy shiver, and pull Thomas to him, as if to draw comfort from proximity. "But it won't be unbearable. An' if it is- we can stop. And- of course you could do it to _me_, if you'd rather..."

"Nah. No. I want you to be- I want to do it this way," Jimmy said, shaking his head. "Please do it to me, Thomas."

"Yes, alright," Thomas said, calmly. Under the sheet their bodies rubbed together again- and Thomas and Jimmy both groaned, lowly, at the same moment. "But you will have to turn over for this," Thomas said. "I can't manage anythin' else, not with broken ribs and a moving train." Thomas thought it would be too much for Jimmy to sit astride him- especially on this first occasion- and _especially_ if Jimmy was worried by the idea of discomfort.

Jimmy turned on his side- but shot Thomas a glance full of trepidation over his left shoulder- until Thomas said, quietly, "It feels good, Jimmy, I swear it. I've done it many a time, an' I've always found that it feels wonderful, better than anything else."

"It does?" Jimmy asked, and Thomas nodded, smiling as comfortingly as he could while being racked by powerful lust.

"Yes," Thomas said- and Jimmy nodded back, in reply- and settled against the mattress. Thomas put a hand to Jimmy's lower back and found that he was both tensed and shaking- and so Thomas rubbed his hands against the muscles of Jimmy's back, soothingly- and aligned their bodies together. Thomas's cock pressed against Jimmy's thighs- and Jimmy sighed. Thomas reached behind himself and found one of the pillows, and handed it to Jimmy. "Put your left knee up- bend it- and rest it on this," Thomas said- and Jimmy looked back at him, and took the pillow, moving his body to Thomas's specifications. "Perfect," Thomas said, when Jimmy had done it- and he touched Jimmy's chest- tracing his nipples and the shape of the muscles under his skin- and moved his hand lower- along the line of Jimmy's stomach- and down, to rub along the length of Jimmy's erection.

_Now he'll ask for poetry,_ Thomas thought- but Jimmy only moved back, against him, and said- "Yes. Please keep touching me while you- when you _do_ it."

"Of course," Thomas said- and he fumbled around on the coverlet, looking for the jar of lotion. When Thomas put his hands upon the hand creme, his movements were so jittery that it got away from him- and he recaptured it- and finally undid the lid, spreading lotion over the length of his erect penis, which was so hard that it leaked at the touch. Jimmy had tilted backwards again- he was watching Thomas, with his lips slightly parted. "You look so fine, doin' that," Jimmy said- and Thomas laughed, unsteadily. "You should see me playing cricket," Thomas said- and Jimmy smiled.

"I have," Jimmy said. "You looked fine then, too." Jimmy's voice was shaking- but it was without artifice- and Thomas kissed the base of Jimmy's neck, and then his shoulder. "Ready?" Thomas asked- and Jimmy nodded. Thomas took a breath- composing himself while Jimmy's face was turned away- and slid down the sheets, much softer than the sheets of his own cot, at home. With one hand Thomas found Jimmy's cock and stroked it- and with the other clasped his own hardon, and guided it towards Jimmy's body.

"Alright, now t-take a breath, like before," Thomas whispered- and when he heard Jimmy's inhalation he pressed the head of his penis inside of Jimmy's body. For a moment the heat- the sudden tightness- and the incomparable _sensation_ of it were so intense that Thomas thought he would simply lose all coherency, or finish immediately- but then he heard Jimmy make a tense little sound of discomfort- and he renewed his touches to Jimmy's prick, stroking it. Jimmy's physical arousal had not abated- but he breathed raggedly, and moved his body, slightly, on the mattress.

"Nn. That's the worst of it," Thomas said, heavily- he did not move into Jimmy any further- but placed a series of kisses on Jimmy's neck and upper back. "How're you managing?"

"Aaah. Alright, I- I suppose," Jimmy whispered- and he turned his head, a little so that they could have eye contact between them. "Thomas- it feels like a _lot_-"

"We can stop," Thomas offered, but Jimmy dismissed him immediately. "No," Jimmy said, roughly. "No more... ngh... running away."

"It's not really running away-" Thomas began- and while he was speaking, Jimmy _pushed_ back against him, so that Thomas's cock was fully inside of him.

"_Ouch_," Jimmy said- and he brought one hand to his own face. "Oh, _shite_! Bloody hell-"

" _Oh_- be _careful_, what are you _doin'?_" Thomas said- and Jimmy, somehow, managed a shrug. "Impaling myself," Jimmy said, in a cracking voice. "Clearly."

Thomas kissed him again- and rubbed Jimmy's stomach and his erection, holding as still as he could, with the train moving underneath them.

"It's alright, love," Thomas said. His own body was shuddering, without consent from his mind- he shook from the feeling of being _inside_ Jimmy- Jimmy was _so_ tight- almost painfully so- and so _warm_ that Thomas was convinced he would come if he moved at all. "It's alright," Thomas said, again.

"It burns a little," Jimmy muttered, from in front of him. "I feel like- _uh_- I feel like there's not enough room inside of me, for you-"

"There is," Thomas said, with assurance. "We fit together very well. Just takes a moment to grow accustomed to it." _Do _not_ move your hips,_ Thomas told himself- and he layed another kiss upon Jimmy's shoulder. _Do not do not do not_-

Jimmy was whispering something- and Thomas inclined his head, trying to ignore the fire in his belly and the pressure around his cock- to listen to Jimmy's words.

"_An'_ I loved _him_, and _him_, and his love, too," Jimmy said, almost inaudibly. "And I- _hmm_- ah_- _confess in many ways I _knew_-"

"That evening, that I should have said- and you- I love you, too, and you," Thomas whispered, into Jimmy's ear- and Jimmy _moaned_- there was no other word for the low sound he made- and Jimmy's interior muscles flexed against Thomas, making him gasp.

"Do I feel good to you?" Jimmy asked.

"You feel better than anything- anything ever has-" Thomas said- and he ran his fingers in a loop around the head of Jimmy's penis.

"O-_oh_, good, I'm so pleased," Jimmy said, tersely- and then, very delicately, he pressed back against Thomas again. "_Ah_, that aches," Jimmy said- and he stilled- but, after a moment, he moved backwards once more, so slowly that Thomas had to bite his own lip to keep from groaning, as Jimmy eased towards him.

"Yes," Thomas said, quietly. "_Ah_- christ, Jimmy, god I love you so much-"

Jimmy was looking over his shoulder at Thomas again- now his body moved forward, arching into the touch of Thomas's hand against his cock- and now, minutely backwards, so that Thomas was entirely within him. Thomas felt an ache in his chest that nearly matched the ache of his erection- it was all consuming- a feeling of love so powerful that Thomas felt devoured, set aflame. He wanted nothing more than to make it _good_ for Jimmy- to make him feel safe- to make him see how loved he was-

"Yes. Oh, _yes_," Jimmy said- a tone of wonder had crept into Jimmy's strained voice. "That _does_ feel good-"

"Told you," Thomas answered- and Jimmy- somehow- found the wherewithal to reach up, and pinch Thomas on the shoulder. "Don't be- _ah_- smug," Jimmy said- and Thomas could not help but laugh- and the laughter made their bodies move together, so that they both groaned.

"Arghhh, keep your good humor to yourself," Jimmy said- his voice was broken- and his words were almost indistinguishable- but Thomas snickered anyways- and then Jimmy moved more quickly against him, making him clench his teeth and make a sound of pleasure.

"Oh, shite_,_ that's right," Jimmy said, quietly- and he grabbed Thomas's hand away from where Thomas still touched Jimmy's erection- and _kissed_ it, reverently. "Oh please yes, you make me feel so _good,_" Jimmy said, pressing kiss after kiss to Thomas's palm. "Please, yes, _Thomas_, do it to me-"

Thomas obeyed him- and moved forward, and backwards, slowly. The feeling was _exquisite_- it was ice and fire, Thomas's body was singing with joy, with bliss- and he let out a long breath, speaking into Jimmy's ear. "Ah _ god,_ Jimmy, I've never _felt_ anything so good, not in all my life-"

"Me neither," Jimmy said, in his low, strained voice- and he craned his neck 'round again, so that they could look into eachother's eyes. "Me- _ah_ shite, Thomas- me neither, no, _I-_ I have to t-tell you something-"

Thomas pulled his hand away from Jimmy's hand, and moved it back down, to touch Jimmy's cock- and Jimmy bit down on his own split lip, with eyes mostly slitted shut. Thomas timed his thrusts with the motions of his hand on Jimmy- and Jimmy's body bucked forward, into Thomas's palm.

"Oh, _god_, Thomas, you- _yes_-" Jimmy said- and he moved with Thomas, so that they made a rhythm in counterpoint to one another's bodies. Thomas felt the end rapidly approaching- his release ran up to meet him, and he fought it back, trying to give Jimmy as much pleasure as he could.

"Thomas I have to _tell_ you something-" Jimmy said- "_Oh_-"

"Yes, yes, tell me," Thomas murmured- and Jimmy sobbed, weakly, and pushed his body back further, seemingly trying to gain purchase against Thomas-

"Yes- nnnhh- _yes,_ what is it-" Thomas asked, pushing forwards, his senses reduced to only the feeling of being inside Jimmy and the sound of Jimmy's voice-

"I _love_- you- ah _god_ help me I love you _so_-" Jimmy said, hoarsely- and then Jimmy came, without any warning- making an anguished sound that he cut off immediately, burying his face in the sheets. Jimmy's semen spilled all over Thomas's hand, and Thomas tried to answer him- but Jimmy's body had clenched around him unbearably tightly- and Thomas pulled Jimmy close, shuddering his own orgasm out, within and against Jimmy, holding Jimmy as tightly to him as he could. Together they trembled through the aftershocks, with the train humming away beneath their shivering bodies.

"I love you too, Jimmy," Thomas said, when he could speak again- and Jimmy made no reply- and no _movement_- save for his shoulders, which shook. Thomas felt a sharp sting of fear- suppose he had hurt Jimmy very badly? He pulled away from Jimmy, and gripped the other man's shoulder's, forcibly turning him around on the bed.

To Thomas's astonishment Jimmy was _weeping_. Jimmy made no sound- but tears streamed down his cheeks- and when Thomas turned him around Jimmy covered his face, trying to hide his state.

"What's _wrong_?" Thomas asked, feeling panic. "Did I hurt you?"

"No you didn't _hurt_ me," Jimmy said, through his tears. "I'm fine. I'm fine."

"You're _not_," Thomas countered. "You're-"

"I _love_ you," Jimmy said- and he gripped Thomas's forearms, like a man drowning. "I _love_ you. I love you, Thomas-"

"Yes, I love you too," Thomas said- he put his unsoiled hand to Jimmy's back, rubbing his skin in slow, comforting circles.

"I know- but I thought- _ah,_ god," Jimmy said- and he furiously wiped at his own face- "I thought I couldn't love _anyone_, and now I see I've loved you all along. I fell in love with you- not even with the book- with _you_, with you, it was always you-"

Jimmy moved his arms, clasping Thomas close to him- and he spoke, sounding half-mad, into Thomas's ear. "I love you so much that the thought of you- it chases me wherever I go- as if you were- with me _always_-"

"I know you love me," Thomas said- and Jimmy stopped speaking, and looked up at Thomas with features that registered frank astonishment. "You do?" Jimmy asked, in a small voice.

"You shouldn't be so surprised," Thomas said- and he kissed Jimmy, very tenderly. "It's you who's always goin' on about how _clever_ I am-"

"Right," Jimmy said, when Thomas pulled away from him- and then Jimmy smiled- a smile that, Thomas thought, he had never seen the equal of. "Don't hurt me, then," Jimmy said after a pause, wagging an admonishing finger. "I couldn't bear it."

"Never," Thomas said, aware that Jimmy was not speaking of being _physically_ injured. "I couldn't, not ever."

"Promise," Jimmy said- and he clasped his left hand with Thomas's right.

"I swear it, Jimmy," Thomas said- and they kissed- rather solemnly- keeping their hands clasped together, like a vow. Thomas could taste the salt of Jimmy's tears, as they kissed, but it was sweet anyhow- and, Thomas thought, he had no longer any cause to rebel against Hope- she had not led him astray- but given him Love, instead.

_There has to be a poem in that, _Thomas thought- and he traced a thumb along Jimmy's cheek. _From Hope comes Love-_

"What?" Jimmy asked, tilting his head to the side.

"I'm thinking of poetry," Thomas said- and he smirked, at the unconcealed interest on Jimmy's face. "Fetch me a fag?"

"If you tell me the poem," Jimmy said, immediately- and Thomas laughed.

"How many hours more do we have on this train?" Jimmy asked- he leaned his whole body across the space between the beds, and managed to snag Thomas's cigarettes.

"A few hours," Thomas said, taking the pack from him. "Why?"

"When we're... quite _recovered,_" Jimmy began- and Thomas snorted, and kissed him, before putting a cigarette in his own mouth.

"I want to do it again," Jimmy said, and he hummed, a contented sound. "Again, again, again-"

The tracks rolled slowly on beneath the bed on which they lay, wrapped in a loose embrace- and Thomas and Jimmy, bathed in lamplight, were borne along. Outside, where Thomas could not see, the train moved through hills and valleys, navigating the dark earth; traveling towards home.


End file.
